SEEING STRAIGHT 

M THE SUND/^T SCHOOL 


GEORGE EZRA HUNTLEY 






COFXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 










Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 





Seeing Straight in the 
Sunday School 

The Observations of Uncle Hezekiah 

BY 

GEORGE EZRA HUNTLEY 

/ 


THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON CHICAGO 


3 V 1525 
' 1 - 1 % 5 


Copyright, 1923 
By SIDNEY A. WESTON 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE JORDAN A MORE PRESS 
BOSTON 

© C1A7597Q8 

m 'O ' 923 


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CONTENTS 



I The Imp from Sawdust Alley ... 2 

(Observations on the Unruly Boy) 

II Ponies and Percherons .n 

(Observations on Workers and Their Tasks) 

III A School fer Stay-to-Hums ... 18 

(Observations on the Home Department) 

IV The Science o’ Crowdin’ .... 27 

(Observations on the Higher Discipline) 

V Dressin’ Up fer Comp’ny .... 35 

(Observations on Neatness and Order) 

VI The Next-Door Mish’nary .... 45 

(Observations on the Problem of Membership) 

VII Paddlin’ Your Own Canoe .... 54 

(Observations on the School and Its Allies) 

VIII Fishin’ fer Fishers.• . 64 

(Observations on the Teacher Question) 

IX The Best of Good Parties .... 75 

(Observations on Outings and Story-Telling) 

X A Task fer a Sternergrapher ... 90 

(Observations on Sunday School Equipment) 

XI Showin’ Respeck fer Seth Thomas . 101 

(Observations on Time in the Sunday School) 

XII The Book and the Books . . . . 111 

(Observations on the Bible and the Curriculum) 

XIII The Beginning of a Long Journey . 124 

(Observations on the Future of Religious Education) 



I 

THE IMP FROM SAWDUST 
AVENUE 

‘'Pore leetle chap/’ exclaimed Uncle Hezekiah, 
“pore leetle feller!” 

The superintendent rubbed his chin; the pretty 
teacher hitched in her chair; the minister cleared his 
throat. 

“So you’re goin’ to give him his walkin’ papers! 
Goin’ to give him up ez a bad job! Leetle Tim! 
Kinder ’pealin’ young skeezicks, arter all! So you’re 
goin’ to let him go! I wonder jest where he’ll go!” 

The three guests of Uncle Hezekiah Harbinger, 
prisoner of the wheel-chair but the most influential 
man in the Gainesbury church, looked decidedly un¬ 
comfortable. They were not quite proud of their 
errand. Out here in the sweet, country air, with a 
view over broad valleys and majestic mountains, 
their difficulties seemed to shrink into insignificance; 
and in the presence of a man who was the very 


2 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


incarnation of patience and good will, their doubt 
and condemnation began to melt away. 

“You see,” said the superintendent, feeling that 
it was necessary to state his position, “you see, he’s 
a veritable imp. He’s the worst boy we ever had in 
our school.” 

“It does seem a case of incorrigibility,” said the 
minister. “I never saw his equal.” 

“He spoiled our entire lesson last Sunday,” said 
the pretty teacher. “He pinched Willie Armstrong’s 
ear; he said words right in class that the other boys 
ought not to know; and he threw gum and hit 
Deacon Simpson right on his bald spot.” 

Uncle Hezekiah was the last resort of Gainesbury 
folks in trouble. In many a case of perplexity his 
keen eyes had seemed to look clear to the heart of a 
matter, and often the tender sympathy of this man 
of pain had reached with understanding and power 
those who had appeared to be hopelessly astray. No 
serious step was ever taken in the Gainesbury church 
without the counsel of this quaint old philosopher. 

Forty years before, his situation had been the hap¬ 
piest and his prospects the brightest with which any 
young man in the whole district was blessed. A 
giant in body, active, aggressive in spirit, winning 
in personality, he seemed destined, in spite of scanty 
education, to prosperity and leadership. Then came 
blows that might have been overwhelming. After a 



The Imp from Sawdust Avenue 


3 


year of married joy, he was left wifeless, and after 
a month of devoted fatherhood, he was left child¬ 
less. Then it was that his great heart opened and, 
out of his love for Mary, developed a mighty chivalry 
that reached to every woman in the world, and out 
of his love for Baby Robert, a yearning tenderness 
that included even the least of God’s little ones. 

The thought of a second marriage apparently 
never occurred to him, but he went into partnership 
with his sister, Miranda Ann, described as “a chip 
from the same block.” Together they made the 
Harbinger farm, three miles from Gainesbury, the 
beauty-spot of the whole country-side, famous, as 
the neighbors often declared, for “good sense, good 
cookin’ and good hosses.” 

Then, when he was fifty and at the summit of his 
strength, came the accident, which meant for him 
first the crutches, and soon the wheel-chair. To 
some men such an experience would bring spiritual 
blindness, while to others it would bring illumina¬ 
tion. Hezekiah Harbinger proved of the latter class. 
When his body became inactive, his mind travelled 
and labored as never before. Under his direction 
the farm was cultivated with new success. He read 
much and, while never dropping the quaint dialect 
of his youth, became familiar with the best of the 
world’s literature, especially with that in his beloved 
Bible. His homely wisdom was at the disposal of 



4 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


any who were in need of counsel, as his purse was at 
the service of any who were in need of money. A 
prisoner at home, he nevertheless was a great Chris¬ 
tian missionary. He was “Uncle Hezekiah,” in 
spirit, as well as in nickname, to old and young 
throughout the whole community. 

The list of accusations against little Tim Godfrey 
did not seem to impress their host quite as the visitors 
had expected. 

“Deacon Simpson’s bald spot! So Dick’s gittin’ 
bald, is he? An’ I s’pose he’s gittin’ dignurfied, too. 
Wal, they wuz a time when Dick hisself wuzn’t jest 
an angel, not a perfick angel. I guess Miss Alice 
would hev had some trouble makin’ him think thet 
Sunday School wuz a place to sit still an’ study 
instead o’ one to stand on his head. But he come 
out all right in the wash. Lots on ’em do, lots on 
’em do! 

“Hit him on the bald spot! So he’s a good shot, 
is he? Sometimes sich fellers make good thinkers 
when they grows up — seem to aim thought as well 
ez gum. But leetle Tim, he’s goin’ to be turned out; 
so I guess they ain’t much hope fer him. I don’t 
know where he’ll go —but I do know where he come 
from.. Do you? Ya-as, I knew his father an’ his 
mother an’ his aunts an’ his grandfathers an’ his 
grandmothers, the hull caboodle. Bright uns but 
bad uns, the hull tribe! I s’pose some book-folks 



The Imp from Sawdust Avenue 


5 


would say thet ef anybody wuz goin’ to do much fer 
Tim, he’d hev to study Old Jed, his grandfather, an’ 
Mell, his uncle thet run away down to York. I 
guess it’s ’bout the same ez ’tis with taters — you’ve 
got to look back at the stock. So with hosses, too. 
Why, some o’ my colts out there has got tricks and 
traits thet I kin trace right back to their grandsires 
an’ their granddams. I furgive ’em purty easy. I 
give ’em a leetle less whip an’ a leetle more love.” 

A new light was coming into the eyes of all three 
of his guests, evidence of a new determination in 
their hearts. 

“Le’s see, Dominie, what wuz thet long word thet 
you spoke ? Incor — incor — what ?” 

Doctor Fairlake hesitated. “I think perhaps I 
said that Tim seemed to be incorrigible.” 

“Wal, don’t try to remember. Thet word ain’t 
in my dictionary an’ I guess you’ll git along ef it 
ain’t in yourn. I don’t b’lieve it’s in our heavenly 
Father’s. ’Tain’t a Bible word. I don’t take much 
stock about them hopeless chaps. Too many on ’em 
has turned round an’ become presidents an’ mission¬ 
aries an’ poets an’ sich. Le’s see, is there a tex’ in 
your gospil thet sez thet the Master come to call, 
not the sinners, but the righteous to repentance? 
No? T’other way round, ain’t it? Wal, do you 
know, I alius thought thet churches ought to be for 
folks thet need ’em most, an’ Sunday Schools.” 




6 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


“Well,” said Superintendent Arnold, “probably 
you are right; but we have tried to have patience 
with Tim Godfrey and to be kind to him; we haven’t 
felt, though, that we could have the whole school 
spoiled just for one member.” 

“No; but what a fine thing it would hev been ef 
you possibly could hev saved thet young imp an’ 
made him into a useful, happy lad! Thet would hev 
made you feel thet your school wuz worth while, 
wouldn’t it? But I s’pose you’ve forgive him sev¬ 
enty times seven. So he’s got to go, the scalawag! 
An’ you’ll hev to go out into the highways an’ by¬ 
ways an’ hunt up some good boy to take his place. 
You had better be purty sure thet you don’t git hold 
o’ any o’ leetle Tim’s cousins, fer you know thet 
blood will tell.” 

The twinkle in the eye took the sting out of what 
might have been rather keen sarcasm. Just then 
Miranda Ann joined them under the shade of the 
big maples, bringing with her a great plate of toast 
and creamy cottage cheese, and a pitcher of lemonade 
colored and flavored with raspberry shrub. The 
brother and sister were strangely different and yet 
strangely similar. She was a wiry little woman, 
weighing far less than half as much as Unde 
Hezekiah, and she was as active as he was quiet. 
Yet she had about the eyes the same expression of 
whimsical good-nature and eager optimism. And 



The Imp from Sawdust Avenue 


7 


her speech, quicker and more nervous than his, used 
the same homely phrases and voiced the same enthu¬ 
siasm for the world and its inhabitants. 

“ ’Randy,” said the old man, “thet young Tim 
Godfrey hez ben actin’ up agin. What do you 
think — better turn him out o’ the Sunday School ?” 

“P’raps so, p’raps so,” replied the sister; and then 
she added, with a humorous smile, “but not till 
they’ve read the fifteenth chapter o’ Luke an’ had a 
leetle season o’ prayer ’bout the lost sheep.” 

“I see that you think that we ought to give him 
another chance,” said Doctor Fairlake, “but I wish 
you would tell us just what to do.” 

“Think an’ pray an’ love — an’ then think an’ think. 
Remember thet the thirty millions o’ Sunday School 
scholars mean thirty million diff’rent problums to be 
solved. No two alike — God hain’t made no dupler- 
cates. Their faces is all diff’rent an’ their souls is 
more diff’rent still. P’raps Tim is one o’ the hardest 
problums in the hull thirty millions. Ef so, you’ve 
got a great big glory right here waitin’ fer you. An’ 
he’s worth all you’ll do. 

“How is it, Alice, gal, you don’t try to teach all 
your boys in the same way, do you? You don’t 
s’pose thet the lad from the parsonage an’ the lad 
from Sawdust Avenue ought to be treated the same, 
do you ?” 

Alice Messenger was a beautiful girl, with classic 





8 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


features and high coloring. She had had no special 
training for her Sunday School work, but took the 
class “because no one else would/’ and, while her 
intentions were good, it must be confessed that she 
never had had a vision of the dignity and privilege 
of her task. Her teaching was thoughtless and, at 
times, almost listless. 

“Why, I just study the lesson and teach the 
lesson.” 

“Now, leetle gal, ’tain’t long sence you used to 
set here an’ read to me out o’ your fairy books. You 
take your old uncle’s advice. When you study, do 
it with a picter o’ each one o’ them boys set up in 
your mind. Say, ‘Now what’s this here truth got 
to do with Jimmie Landers, spoilt by them three 
lovin’ aunts, an’ what good kin this here thought do 
fer young Bill Farnum, lorded over by six older 
children, an’ what’s the use o’ this here tex’ to my 
dear Tim Godfrey, who heard swear-words an’ smelt 
pore whisky the day he was borned ?’ Them lessins 
is fer something, Alice.” 

Uncle Hezekiah stroked his long, white beard. 
“I never saw a cleaner looking man,” thought the 
minister, as he and others had thought and said 
many times. 

“I guess Randy an’ I’ll hev Tim come up an’ take 
supper with us to-morrer. You’ve all had him in 
your homes a good many times, I s’pose. What, 




The Imp from Sawdust Avenue 


9 


never? Not one o’ you? You goin’ to fire him 
without even tryin’ the effect o’ a big piece o’ appul 
pie? You know what’s true ’bout the stomach rout’ 
to a man’s heart is true with a boy too — only ten 
times more so. 

“I s’pose thet boy's hungry, don’t you? Fer food, 
perhaps. I’m purty sure he’s hungry fer friendship. 
You don’t want him in Sunday School. Did you 
know thet his own father an’ mother never wanted 
him? What kind o’ feelin’ must a feller hev when 
he’s alius guessin’ thet nobody in the hull world 
really wants him around? Ya-as, I’ll hev him up 
to supper.” 

“I’ll have him too,” said the minister. “So will 
I,” said the superintendent. 

“Not too fast, not too fast! He’ll git dyspepser! 
Jest warm up to him kinder gradual so he 
won’t think you’ve all hed a sudden fit o’ Bible 
readin’. 

“What do you give him to do? He’s a hustlin’ 
young chap, ain’t he ? God made him to be in mo¬ 
tion. Them hands an’ them feet, they wan’t never 
meant to keep still. He’s the boy you ought to hev 
pump the organ an’ pass the songbooks an’ set the 
chairs. Jest ’lect him boss o’ the books an’ the 
chairs. Give him other things to do. Keep him so 
busy thet he won’t hev no time fer deviltry. 

“Did you ever try scoldin’ him?” 



io Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


“Oh, yes, many times,” said Alice, “but it only 
seems to make him worse and worse.” 

“Ya-as. Wal, my advice is to try somethin’ else. 
Prob’ly he hez ’nough scoldin’ to home. He’s cal¬ 
lous. Jest make him know thet you’re his friends 
an’ thet you need his help. Ask him, when you git 
him alone an’ kin hev a good, quiet talk with him, 
ask him to help you keep the other boys in order. 
Take him into partnership.” 

“Perhaps we had better give him another chance,” 
said Superintendent Arnold. “Perhaps! Why, of 
course, we will, as many as he needs,” exclaimed the 
minister. “I know that Pm willing to keep on try¬ 
ing,” said Alice, her face aglow with a new in¬ 
spiration. 

Miranda Ann, moving quietly about, began to 
sing, as though to herself, “O Love that wilt not let 
me go.” 

“There’s a tex’ here in the Old Testament,” said 
Uncle Hezekiah, “thet I wuz readin’ jest this 
mornin’ an’ it struck me ez bein’ purty good.” He 
took up the Bible and turned the pages as one fa¬ 
miliar with his way. “Here it is : Thou hast loved 
me from the pit.’ An’ here's another vershin in the 
margin. Tn love for my soul, thou hast delivered 
me from the pit of corruption.’ Purty good gospil, 
even ef ’tis in the Old Testament — don’t you think 
so, Dominie ?” 



II 


PONIES AND PERCHERONS 

“Now, Elder, take thet there rockin’ chair an’ 
set right up dost by the fire. It’s a blusterin’ day 
outside, but I notice thet the blusteriner the weather 
is the better the logs burn in this here ol’ fireplace. 
’Randy Ann’s run down suller to git a few pound 
sweets an’ some Tompkin County kings. Wish we 
c’ld make you so comfortable thet this’d be a visit 
’stead o’ a call.” 

It was a picture to challenge and delight an artist 
— the humble but homelike sitting room; the rough 
old philosopher in his wheel-chair, virile and radiant 
in spite of his infirmities; his scholarly, polished, but 
no less congenial guest; the glow from the fire bring¬ 
ing out the lights and shadows of both strong, fine 
faces. The faithful sister, returning with a glass 
dish of bouncing apples and a plate of doughnuts 
and cup-cakes, made the group even more pictur¬ 
esque and charming. 

“Wal, Parson,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “they’s 
somethin’ kinder troublin’ you to-day. I ain’t no 


12 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


mind-reader, but I kin see thet all the bad weather 
ain’t outside.” 

“You are right,” said the minister, his face thus 
soon beginning to brighten, “I am disturbed, and 
that is what brought me out here in the storm. I 
need a little good advice, and of course this house is 
the place to get it. You see, it’s that Sunday School. 
Somehow things seem to be out of joint. We have 
a company of high-minded, consecrated, Christian 
people there, and they seem to be impressed with the 
dignity of their great task, but for some reason they 
are not very happy and not very efficient.” 

“Wal, now, thet is too bad — people not over¬ 
joyed to be in what oughter be the most glorious 
work on the footstool, a-helpin’ boys to become God- 
seein’ an’ God-servin’ men, an’ gals to become sweet, 
pure, true, noble women. Ya-as, you hev got some 
fine people up there at the church, some o’ the very 
finest. Now, there’s young Lawyer Adams, jest the 
kind o’ lawyer we need in this world. Bright chap, 
honest chap — ben to college, got a knack fur win- 
nin’ folks an’ makin’ ’em work. I spose, o’ course, 
he’s your superintendent.” 

“Well, no, he isn’t. He’s our librarian just now. 
Deacon Arnold’s the superintendent.” 

“Oh, he is, is he? Wal, I knowed he wuz afore 
you told me. Say, Dominie, how ever did it hap¬ 
pen? O’ course you’re in trouble. An’ thet ain’t 



Ponies and Percherons 


13 


0 

sayin’ a thing agin the Deacon. He’s a saint. An’ 
he’s got brains too — some. I knowed him afore he 
wuz knee-high to a grasshopper an’ I love him. 
But, say, I wouldn’t let him superintend my hen- 
yard.” 

“In confidence, Uncle Hezekiah, I think that you’re 
right. But, you see, he was elected and he thought 
that it was his duty to accept the office, and so 
he is our superintendent and has been for three 
years.” 

“Thet’s too bad; but how ’bout the rest o’ your 
folks! Be you sure thet you ain’t got any other 
ponies in the places o’ Percherons an’ Percherons in 
the places o’ ponies?” 

“I’m afraid that I don’t quite see the point, Uncle.” 

“Wal, they’s hosses an’ hosses; they’s good an’ 
willin’ hosses an’ other good an’ willin’ hosses. But 
thet don’t mean thet they’re all fitted fer jest the 
same kind o’ jobs. Your ten-hunderd-pound pony 
is fust-rate fer pullin’ ’round the kiddies; an’ I’ve 
seen ’em thet c’ld step along in front o’ a sulky; but 
they ain’t much good at haulin’ stun’. Then, your six- 
teen-hunderd Percheron wan’t built fer a play-hoss. 
His back an’ legs wuz made to pull loads. Why, 
Parson, they’s dozens o’ kinds o’ hosses an’ they’s 
dozens o’ kinds o’ jobs fer ’em. It’s jest the same in 
churches; an’ it’s jest the same in Sunday Schools. 
Now it strikes me thet down yender you’ve got your 



14 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


ponies an’ Percherons purty well mixed. Take thet 
class o’ young wild westers, Tom Richards an’ them 
other dozen-year-olds. Somebody told me t’other 
day thet Susie Carrington wuz teachin’ ’em. I said 
I didn’t b’lieve it. She couldn’t. She might teach 
somebody else, but she couldn’t teach them live boys 
no more’n I c’ld teach circus-ridin’.” 

They talked over the different officers and teach¬ 
ers, all of them people of high ideals and of good 
ability, and they decided that the trouble at the Sun¬ 
day School was in a whole series of misfits. Uncle 
Hezekiah said that everybody had had a call but 
that everybody had heard the wrong voice. 

“Ain’t it sad an’ ain’t it funny, too, how folks gits 
out o’ their places in this world,” he mused. “Why, 
we had a hired man one summer, thet is we had him 
one day in one summer, an’ we all thought thet he 
wuz jest a consarned ijit. Sent him fer a col’ chisel 
an’ he brought me a screw-driver! An’ where do 
you s’pose he is to-day? Teachin’ college up north 
an’ they say he’s smarter'n chain lightnin’. Oh, 
they’s ditch-diggers thet oughter be lawyers an’ 
they’s lawyers thet oughter be ditclvdiggers. An’ I 
s’pose they’s even some ministers thet — wal, I guess 
I better not say thet, Parson.” 

“I see our trouble, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the 
visitor, “but what’s to be done?” 

“How did you pick out the folks fer the different 



Ponies and Percherons 


15 

places? Write down the names on pieces o’ paper, 
mix ’em up in a hat an’ pass ’em ’round?” The 
twinkle in his eye showed that there was no bitter¬ 
ness in his sarcasm. 

The minister described the annual election, which 
was without forethought, officers being nominated 
from the floor according to anyone’s passing whim, 
and, of course, always elected. And it appeared 
that teachers were put in charge of classes because 
they happened to be available at the moment of a 
vacancy and not because they had any special ability 
for the work required. Sometimes teachers chose 
their own classes and sometimes classes chose their 
own teachers. 

“I’ve noticed,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “thet ‘hit or 
miss’ usually means 'miss/ You say thet you’ve 
come up here to git an ol’ man’s advice. It’s free. 
I think thet you oughter hev a committee o’ ’bout 
four to set down an’ think over jest what work they 
is to be done an’ jest who they is to do it. Let ’em 
make out a slate ez the politicians do. Let ’em put 
the ponies an’ the Percherons at their proper jobs. 
Then hev the ’lection jest to say ‘Amen’ to what the 
committee has taken time to think out. Of course 
the people will hev to be seen aforehand ’bout takin’ 
the offices so thet nobody’ll be declinin’ at jest the 
wrong moment. An’ then I think you oughter hev 
somebody to put a lot o’ thought into placin’ the 



16 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


teachers — it may be your superintendent or head¬ 
teacher or somebody t’other. But don’t hev it 
haphazard — the hazard’s too great.” 

The minister rose to go. The apples had dis¬ 
appeared and the doughnuts and cupcakes, which 
Aunt Miranda Ann had declared unfit to eat, had 
gone with them. 

“You’re right, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the pastor. 
“We’ve been thoughtless and careless about one of 
the most important duties in our whole church life. 
But it will be different in the future. You wait and 
see. And the credit will be pretty largely yours.” 

“Wal, don’t fergit the old sayin’ ’bout square pegs 
an’ round holes. Only remember thet it doesn’t half 
express the truth. For they’s pegs with five sides 
an’ some with seven an’ some with a dozen; an’ they’s 
holes o’ all sorts an’ shapes. An’ jest a minute, 
Dominie; don’t you want to read a few words fer 
me from this here letter o’ the ’Postle?” 

The old man, without hesitation, opened his Bible 
to the twelfth chapter of First Corinthians, and the 
minister, with moist eyes, read Paul’s marvellous 
lesson of the diversity of gifts, but the same Spirit, 
of the differences of administration, but the same 
Lord, of the diversity of operations, but the same 
God working all in all. 

“And God hath set some in the church, first 
apostles, secondly prophets, thirdly teachers, then 



Ponies and Percherons 


l 7 


miracles, then gifts of healings, helps, governments, 
divers kinds of tongues.” 

“I wonder,” said the old man slowly, “I jest won¬ 
der whether they had any trouble over there in 
Corinth with their ponies an’ Percherons.” 



Ill 


A SCHOOL FOR STAY-TO-HUMS 

“ ’Randy Ann!” called Uncle Hezekiah, “ ’Randy 
Ann! Come quick an’ see ef my neckerchief’s on 
straight! Here’s a purty gal cornin’ up the walk an’ 
like ez not she’s cornin’ to see me!” 

“Don’t you worry,” replied his sister, taking off 
her gingham apron and revealing a white one be¬ 
neath, “I never seen the time yit when you didn’t 
look ez though you hed jest stepped out o’ a band- 
box. Wonder who thet here gal is. Some agint, 
prob’ly.” 

If she had been an agent, even a book agent or a 
lightning rod agent, she would have received cour¬ 
teous treatment from the two friendly folks on the 
hillside, who would have remembered that she might 
be very warm and tired and that her shoes might 
hurt her feet. But the visitor had nothing to sell, 
and, very much to his surprise, she had come to see 
Uncle Hezekiah. In she walked, good to look upon, 
with her golden hair and clear blue eyes; good to 
listen to, with her friendly voice and merry little 
laugh. 


A School for Stay-to-Hums 


19 


Edith Stardale was one of the girls who always 
fit. She was exactly in place wherever she went, 
whether it was to the most magnificent mansion or 
to the humblest cottage. She was genuinely inter¬ 
ested in everybody and, therefore, everybody was 
cheered and helped by her presence. 

“How do you do, Aunt ’Randy Ann,” she cried, 
giving the old lady a hug and a kiss. “And the top 
of the morning to you, Uncle!” 

The faces of the invalid and his devoted sister 
shone with delight. 

“Wal, wal, waif' the old man exclaimed, “this is 
our Edith, come out over the hills fer a mornin’ 
call!” 

It was a beautiful day in July, the air sweet with 
a hundred odors from garden and meadow. A few 
birds sang out in the orchard, though most had 
settled down to the quiet of domestic duties. The 
crickets and the locusts, however, were at their most 
vociferous moment, clattering incessantly, not, as 
scientists assure us, to express any desire but just to 
manifest their joy at being alive in such a marvel¬ 
lous universe. The trio sat on the “west stoop,” 
looking out across the valley to the majestic hill now 
glorified with the morning light. 

“No, you’re wrong,” said the girl. “I’ve come for 
something more than mere sociability, though I cer¬ 
tainly am glad to sit down here with you two dear 



20 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


friends. I’ve come on business. There’s something 
that I want you to do, both of you.” 

‘Til do it, unsight an’ unseen,” said Uncle He- 
zekiah, “an’ I’m purty sartin’ ’Randy Ann will. 
What is it ? Want us to give you a thousand dollars 
apiece?” 

“Not a cent,” laughed Edith. “I want you both to 
join our Sunday School.” 

A wistful look passed over the face of the man in 
the wheel-chair and he seemed pained and puzzled. 

“Ain’t you a leetle cruel, Edith ? Ain’t you forgit- 
tin’ a leetle somethin’? Bless your heart, child, I 
guess I’d like to jine thet Sunday School. But, 
dearie, it’s more’n twenty year sence I’ve sot foot in 
the Gainesbury post-office, let alone the Gainesbury 
church.” 

The girl smiled, aware that she had a great joy to 
bestow. 

“No, sir, I’m not forgetting a thing. You see we 
have a new department in our school, a home de¬ 
partment, just for the benefit of the people who are 
never able to get to our regular sessions. I’m to be 
superintendent. And, of course, I want you and 
Aunt ’Randy Ann for the very first members!” 

The old man’s face gradually cleared and he 
beamed with delight. 

“A home department! Now do tell! Wal, ef 
thet ain’t an idee! What do you think o’ thet, 



A School for Stay-to-Hums 


21 


‘Randy, — you an’ me jinin’ the Sunday School! 
Wal, I guess! I guess, p'raps! It won’t take us 
long to decide, will it, ’Randy? Why, I ain’t jined 
nothin’ sense I wuz ’nitiated into the Odd Fellers, 
an’ thet wuz ’fore I hed a gray hair in my head. Me, 
Hezekiah Harbinger, a real, sure ’nuff member o’ 
the Sunday School ? Why, Edith, gal, you’re a full- 
blood angel, thet’s what!” 

The good man could hardly contain himself for 
joy. 

“’Randy, she looks like the Stardales, now don’t 
she ? Kinder ornamental, they all wuz! But I guess 
she’s got some o’ her mother’s git-up-an’-git, though. 
A home department! Now, gal, tell us jest what 
thet means.” 

“Well, you see, Uncle Hezekiah, this is a big 
movement, all over the country and in all the de¬ 
nominations. And no church is up-to-date that 
doesn’t take advantage of the fine idea. You are to 
be enrolled and counted as a member of the school. 
I shall bring you a handsome purple badge (one that 
will look well on your Sunday suit) and a certificate 
of membership. Once in three months I will come 
out with your lesson quarterlies and will get a report 
of what you have studied. Of course there will be 
other distributors in other sections, but I am going 
to insist on the privilege of having your district for 
myself. And I hope to be able to come a good many 



22 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


times besides those when I deliver the papers. If 
ever you are sick or have any particular need, of 
course I shall come then.” 

“Why, it seems to me thet you’ll be a kinder assist¬ 
ant paster.” 

“Some ministers find that it works out that way. 
That is what Mr. Roscoe over at Avon told Doctor 
Fairlake. He said that at first he was slow to believe 
in the home department but that now he wouldn’t 
try to keep house without it.” 

“Seems sensible to me,” said Uncle Hezekiah. 
“Seem sensible to you, ’Randy?” 

“I should say it did! But I kin think o’ some 
other things thet might be done. Seems so you 
might lend some good books to some folks thet don’t 
hev enough reading.” 

“I’ll make a note of that idea,” said Edith. “I 
think it will be quite a pleasure to you to know that 
every week you are studying the same lessons that 
other home department members are using all over 
the United States.” 

“Ya-as,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “in union is 
strength. But I want to ask you ’bout the cost o’ 
all this? Kin we pay anything?” 

“Oh, yes, if you want to. There will be little en¬ 
velopes in which you can put your weekly offerings 
if you want to.” 

“Wal, I want to.” 



A School for Stay-to-Hums 


23 


“Most of the members do; so that usually the 
home department is not the slightest burden on the 
main school.” 

“Anything else thet we ought to know 'fore we 
takes the awful plunge?” 

‘Well, we shall hope to have a home department 
social once in a while and have some of our men go 
out with their autos and just compel folks like you 
to get in and ride to the parish house.” 

“I won’t hev to dance, will I?” 

“No, but you will have to shake hands with all the 
other home department members, folks that you 
haven’t seen for years. And then another time we 
will have what you will like better still, a home de¬ 
partment Sunday, and I do hope that you will be 
well enough so that they can take you to church to 
hear one of the Doctor’s good sermons. Isn’t it 
great?” 

“Any kiddies in this department?” 

“Yes, we’re looking forward to that also. We 
are to have a cradle roll, of course, for the tots. But 
we expect to take the Sunday School to a good many 
boys and girls who for one reason or another can’t 
get to sessions. The older folks first, though.” 

“Put me right down,” exclaimed the old man, 
beaming with pleasure. 

“And me too,” said his sister. “And, Brother, 
what do you think ’bout Rich an’ Huldy?” 



24 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


Uncle Hezekiah drew from his pocket a queer 
silver whistle, made in the shape of a horse’s head. 

A signal brought from a corn-field down the hill 
a red head, a smiling face and a nimble little body. 
Rich Haskins, head farmer and “right-hand man,” 
joined the group quickly, while another series of 
blasts from the magic whistle brought from the neat 
cottage across the way his wife and coadjutor, Hul- 
dah. “A great pair, them two,” their employer was 
accustomed to say, “red an’ black, little an’ big, but 
haulin’ together with perfick team-work.” 

The home department idea pleased the work-folks 
almost as much as it did Uncle Hezekiah and Aunt 
’Randy, for though they were often at church, they 
never were able to remain for the Sunday School. 

“So there’s four members for you, right off,” 
exclaimed the old man. “Why, this makes me feel 
like a young boy agin! Yes, sir! Yes, sir ree!” 

It was a happy group, and it would be hard to say 
who was the happiest. 

“Where be you goin’ from here? Who is to be 
our feller-members?” 

“Well, there are some folks who are not very well, 
and some who have no horses and live too far from 
church to walk, and some who have to work on Sun¬ 
day. There will be forty home department members 
to start with, I’m sure. I’m going over to see Miss 
Brightwood to-day.” 



A School for Stay-to-Hums 


25 


“Ho, ho! Goin’ over to get Polly, are you ? Wal, 
it’s a nice walk. Our Brother Jim used to take it 
’bout seven nights a week oncet an’ ef he’d a-lived, 
there prob’ly wouldn’t hev been no Miss Brightwood 
to-day. I hope you’ll git Polly. Lot’s o’ nice fellers 
has tried to, but she seems to remember somebody. 
Ya-as, I wants to belong to the same Sunday School 
as Polly. 

“Now, who’s thet coming? The minister! Well, 
blessin’s never come single. Walk right up, Domi¬ 
nie! I’ve got somethin’ to tell you! This here’s a 
big day for me! Pm a member! I’ve jined! I ain’t 
an outsider no more! Little Edith, our little Edith, 
why, she’s did me more good than a hull drug store! 
The home department’s the thing for me!” 

Miranda Ann and Rich and Huldah shared in his 
joy. If Doctor Fairlake ever had doubt as to the 
utility of a home department, he must have been 
converted quickly and thoroughly. 

“Parson, I want Scripter. We all do. Don’t you 
want to read to us ’bout the great invitation?” 

Doctor Fairlake, gifted with a rich, deep voice, and 
with clear, intelligent enunciation, read the gracious 
words, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden.” 

“All ye, all ye! Even us pore mortals in the wheel¬ 
chairs an’ sich! Thet’s a tex’ for the home depart¬ 
ment, ain’t it!” 



26 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


The old man looked at the ceiling a moment, a 
mist in his eyes. 

“Excuse me, friends,” he said. “Eve just got to 
sing. It’s my heart gittin’ the best o’ me.” He sang 
softly, “ ‘There’s a wideness in God’s mercy like the 
wideness of the sea.’ You'd better tune up a leetle, 
and jine in, ’Randy Ann!” 



IV 


THE SCIENCE O’ CROWDIN’ 

“Wal, wal!” exclaimed Uncle Hezekiah Har¬ 
binger, ‘‘who’s suin’ me now? S’pose I ben cheatin’ 
Major Simmons out o’ his grocery bills! S’pose I 
ben trespassin’ over on the huntin’ presarves o’ them 
city folks!” 

He turned in his wheel-chair and beamed with love 
and welcome, as young Lawyer Adams entered the 
cosy sitting room. 

“Let me git hold o’ your hand, young man. I alius 
did like to shake a good Adams hand — or a good 
Miller hand either. You’ve got good blood on both 
sides, Francis. You’ve got somethin’ to live up to, 
inheritin’ the consciences o’ two sech grandfathers 
an’ two sech grandmothers ez yourn. I knowed ’em 
all. No better folks in these parts! Now set right 
down an’ make yourself to home. Who’s suin’ me 
now ?” 

The young lawyer, who had entered with a clouded 
brow, brightened in response to the cordial welcome. 
The two virile men, one past the age of activity, one 
just beginning his career of service, were made to be 


28 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


friends. Both were big in body and big in mind. 
Both had a passion for human good which made pos¬ 
sible between them a deep understanding. 

“No one happens to be suing you just now, Uncle 
Hezekiah. We are pretty merciful to the malefac¬ 
tors these days. I haven’t come about a case in 
court. It’s a case in church. You see they have 
elected me superintendent of the Sunday School and 
I am green about such things and need your advice.” 

A stranger might have thought it queer for the 
new superintendent to go for counsel to a man who 
had not been in the church for nearly a quarter of a 
century; but no one well acquainted in Gainesbury 
would have wondered. For Uncle Hezekiah was the 
best friend and best adviser of every worker for 
church or community blessing. As a matter of fact, 
it was he who had selected Francis Adams to be 
superintendent, and who had suggested a tactful 
way of putting on the retired list the good man who 
had held the position for three years without giving 
evidence of having a single idea. 

“So you’re to be superintendent! However did it 
happen thet they ’lected you? You’ll be killin’ out 
your own business, won’t you? How’ll you git a 
livin’ ez a lawyer ef you train all them boys an’ gals 
to be good citizens an’ friendly folks? Seems to me 
you oughter be lookin’ ahead a leetle. But, say, 
Francis, I want to take thet hand agin. It’s a great 



The Science o’ Crowdin' 


29 


job thet you’ve got. You’ve got a place where you 
kin pass down your good influence fur ten year an’ 
twenty year an’ a hunderd year. I don’t know what 
I’ ruther be than Sunday School superintendent. But 
what’s the perticular cause o’ them anxious leetle 
lines up there on thet Adams forehead?” 

“Well, Uncle Hezekiah, it’s about the discipline. 
I have been reading and thinking and working and 
praying and I think that in a good many regards we 
have made some progress in our school. But, Uncle, 
I haven’t any discipline, not a bit.” 

“You havn’t, eh? Thet’s good! Thet’s very 
good!” 

“Good? Why that’s what I’ve been worrying 
about! The boys wiggle and the girls giggle and 
there’s whispering and a good deal of other mischief. 
You can’t think that such a state of affairs is any¬ 
thing to rejoice about.” 

“So they hev some tantrums, do they? Wal, bless 
their hearts! Of course you want your children to 
behave an’ to git some lamin’ out o’ their school. 
But I hope thet you’ll win ’em by interest an’ love an’ 
not by discipline. Why, we never had no discipline 
in the Harbinger home. Pa and Ma, they wuz jest 
good partners with us children — never laid a hard 
hand on one o’ us. An’ we wasn’t no nateral angels, 
nuther. Over to Neighbor Benson’s they had disci¬ 
pline, morning, noon an’ night. Mrs. Benson, she 



30 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


had a sore throat fifty-two weeks a year from scold¬ 
in’ them young uns, an’ “Dad” Benson, he got so 
tired out lickin’ the boys an’ gals thet he never had 
no energy left fur tillin’ his soil. An’ I guess we 
come out ’bout ez well or a leetle better; I’m an ole 
reperbate, but ’Randy Ann an’ all the rest o’ the 
Harbinger fam’ly kin look the community in the 
face. But the Bensons — wal, you know all ’bout 
’em. Yes, sirree, they’s somethin’ better’n discipline. 
It doesn’t take half so much time or muscle an’ it 
works twice ez well.” 

A light step was heard and in came a little old 
lady, with a wealth of silver hair and a gentle smile, 
and in her eyes the Harbinger gleam. 

“Wal, here’s ’Randy Ann, now — jest ez glad to 
see you as I be. S’pose she’s ben up stairs primpin’ 
ever sence she got sight o’ you cornin’ up the road. 
Set right down, ’Randy Ann — unless you’d ruther 
go an’ git a leetle ginger pop an’ some caraway 
cookies fur us men. We’re powerful thirsty an’ 
hungry.” 

The gentle hostess went out for refreshments and 
the old man continued his talk. 

“I don’t know jest what you mean by good be¬ 
havior. I should think thet thet would depend on 
what class you wuz talkin’ ’bout. Is it the old ladies’ 
class thet is makin’ the trouble? No? The boys an’ 
gals ? Wal, air you jest sartain thet them boys really 



The Science o’ Crowdin’ 


3 1 


oughter be perfickly quiet an’ solemn? You don’t 
want them to be jest like the old ladies, do you? 
Francis, I guess when you go to your Sunday 
School you had better leave all your frowns (ef 
you’ve got any) to home an’ all your sternness an’ 
all your big, solemn voice. I guess ef you’re goin’ 
to larn them scholars ’bout the ‘glorious gospil’ 
you’ve got to make your Sunday School a place fur 
happiness an’ sunshine. I think thet when a super¬ 
intendent’s ugly he’s misbehavin’ a good deal more’n 
the boy he’s scoldin’. Don’t take their leetle pranks 
too much to heart. You know thet askin’ boys to 
set still is jest about like askin’ water not to run 
down the bank. ’Randy, what wuz it thet thet 
George Macdonald man writ ’bout a God o’ joy?” 

Miranda Ann, who had returned with a big pitcher 
of “pop” and a liberal supply of cookies, was glad to 
have her share in the conversation. 

“Why, he asked how many o’ us b’lieved so thor¬ 
oughly in a God o’ joy thet we dared to laugh in his 
presence an’ he went on to ’low thet ef the good 
Father had given man the power to laugh he must 
hev wanted to hev it used.” 

“Ya-as, thet’s good sense. Nine times out o’ ten 
when your boys laugh you had better laugh with 
them. Take the deviltry out o’ their fun by thinkin’ 
o’ it as right an’ helpful. Make it ’lustrate their les¬ 
sons, maybe.” 



32 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


“Well, Uncle Hezekiah, you don’t mean that the 
Sunday School should be a place just for play and 
riot, do you?” 

“No, sirree. It should be a place fer good order, 
havin’ the right idee o’ what good order is. An’ 
talkin’ ’bout the real mischief, thet thet you’ve really 
got to git rid on, what you need, Francis, is the 
science o’ crowdin’. Keep your young uns so busy 
with right things thet they won’t hev no time fer 
wrong things. I’ve larned the science o’ crowdin’ 
in a good many ways. Pa an’ Ma knew all ’bout it. 
They wuz real thinker folks. They never wuz no 
dull times at our house, ’cause Pa an’ Ma knew thet 
dullness is dangerous. Whenever things wuz gittin’ 
too quiet, Pa’d alius hev some game to play or some 
trap to make or some place to go, or Ma’d hev some 
jolly leetle plan thet wouldn’t give us a minute fer 
deviltry. 'Satan finds some mischief still fer idle 
hands to do’ — he sure does. I remember teachers 
over at the old red schoolhouse thet seemed to under¬ 
stand this science. Some didn’t. Ho, ho! Say, 
they thought they wuz the peskiest set o’ varmints in 
this deestrict o’ anywhere in seven counties. They 
couldn’t do enough trouncin’ to keep us in order, an’ 
the more they trounced the peskier we wuz. But 
them thet knowed the science o’ crowdin’ didn’t hev 
no trouble with us. They didn’t find us sech a lot o’ 
wild Injuns. Jest kept us interested in right things.” 



The Science o’ Crowdin’ 


33 


“Tell him ’bout thet trip to New York,” said 
Miranda Ann. 

“She’s hearn me tell ’bout the time a half dozen 
o’ us young fellers went down to York City to see 
the sights. S’pose Pa an’ Ma worried ’bout us some, 
but they knowed we oughter hev our fling. So what 
they did wuz to give us an errand to do in this place, 
an’ somebody to call on in that place, an’ some money 
to go an’ see the wax works in t’other place, an’ so on. 
Say, we had a great time, the best time you c’ld think 
on, an’ when the day come to buy our tickets fer 
Gainesbury we hadn’t done a thing to blush about. 
Hadn’t had time to think o’ evil. It wuz a joke on 
us, but a good joke, a mighty good joke. 

“Lots o’ folks, my boy, air saved by the fact thet 
they’s only twenty-four hours a day. Them labor 
unions is cryin’ fer shorter workin’ hours an’ fewer 
on ’em. Thet’s all right. But somebody’s got to 
hustle ’round an’ purvide somethin’ interestin’ an’ 
hullsome fer the laborer to do when he ain’t in the 
mine or fact’ry or hayfield. 

“Now let’s git back to thet blessed Sunday School. 
When a boy’s quiet he’s sick or else he’s old afore 
his time. An’ I guess it’s the same with gals, ain’t 
it, ’Randy? Children wasn’t made to be still. What 
you’ve got to do is to keep ’em so busy an’ so happy 
thet they won’t be no call nor opportunity for disci- 



34 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


pline. Direct ’em, thet’s your job. Hev things for 
’em to do fer the school, books to take care on, furni¬ 
ture to move, records to keep, flags to put up; hev 
things fer ’em to draw an’ things fer ’em to cut out, 
an’ things fer ’em to paint, an’ things fer ’em to 
write. Git ’em to talk a good deal. Git ’em to tell 
stories thet’ll bring out the lessons. I guess your dis¬ 
cipline’s got to be afore you come into the school¬ 
room. It’s got to be with your officers an’ it’s got to 
be with your teachers. Git the science o’ crowdin’ 
into their craniuins an’ the boys an’ gals will be all 
right.” 

“Thank you, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the visitor, 
his face aglow with a new understanding. “I see 
that you have the truth. I shall try that science. 
And I’ll let you know about its success. Have you 
any more good advice ?” 

“No, I haven’t, but I shouldn’t wonder ef Saint 
Paul had a word or so. ’Randy, jest pass me the 
good Book. Here, Francis, you’re a lawyer an’ I 
guess you’ll be interested in readin’ Romans, thir¬ 
teenth chapter, tenth verse.” 

“Love,” read the young man, “is the fulfilling of 
the law.” 

“Why, so ’tis,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “so ’tis. I 
guess p’r’aps Saint Paul had thought a leetle ’bout 
the science o’ crowdin’ 



V 

DRESSIN’ UP FER COMPANY 

The young couple walked buoyantly up the path 
between the weedless beds of portulacas, four 
o’clocks, lady’s slippers and China pinks. They 
were good to look upon — Francis Adams, M. A., 
and Mrs. Francis Adams, also M.A., bride and 
groom a year ago, but already leaders in every good 
work in Gainesbury. He in his white flannels, she 
in her spotless muslin, radiant with good health and 
good cheer, seemed to personify physical and moral 
cleanliness and strength. 

Uncle Hezekiah, sitting in his wheel-chair on the 
south piazza, stretched forth both hands in welcome 
and blessing. He loved this young lawyer and 
Christian worker, as he had loved his father before 
him, and in the big heart there was room waiting 
for the beautiful woman who had come to share and 
complement his friend’s active and useful life. 

“Wal said! Wal said!” cried the old man. “I 
shore am tickled to see you. I shore am pleased ez 
I kin be. Now set down — take thet there leetle red 
rocker, Gladys. I’m goin’ to call you Gladys right 
off without waitin’ several years to git acquainted, 
’cause I kin see thet the name fits. Everybody’s glad 


36 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


where you be; your folks wuz glad when you wuz 
borned; an’ Francis wuz glad when you said you’d 
hev him; an’ we’re all glad you’ve come to make 
Gainesbury a bright an’ happy place. Jest a minute 
an’ ’Randy Ann’ll be here an’ tell you whuther or not 
she’s tickled too. ’Randy’s ben havin’ en endurance 
race with a fly this afternoon, the last one on the 
premises, an I’ guess she’s a bit tuckered. But the 
fly — he ain’t sayin’ nothin’.” 

When the old lady had come and given a greeting 
no less genuine or enthusiastic than her brother’s, 
the four settled down for what Uncle Hezekiah 
called “a good, old-fashioned talk-out.” And Gladys 
Adams felt as though she had reached some delight¬ 
ful haven of which she had been dreaming all her 
life. 

“Uncle Hezekiah,” she said, “this place of yours 
ought to be called ‘The Saints’ Rest.’ I get such a 
sense of peace here. Everything seems to be just 
right — everything just in its proper place.” 

“It’s all her work,” said the old man. “She’s 
’bout daffy on housekeepin’. You know — seems to 
think thet cleanliness really’s a part o’ godliness. 
Then, o’ course, I’d be ashamed not to hev the out¬ 
doors match the in-doors.” 

“Do you take care of the rest of the farm?” asked 
Francis. 

“Ya-as, I do by (what is’t you call it, proxy?) by 




Dressin Up fer Company 


37 


proxy. Now there’s thet piece of paper the butcher 
left out there under the maple to-day. I oughter to 
hev picked it up afore you got here.” He took his 
little silver whistle from his pocket and blew three 
times, and presently in the barn-door Rich Haskins, 
chief hired man and general factotum, appeared, 
standing almost at military attention. From the 
whistle came a peculiar combination of longs and 
shorts. Haskins started for the maple as though 
commanded by a major general and in an instant the 
offending paper was removed from the landscape. 

“I can’t abide papers blowin’ ’round my grass,” 
said the host, “an’ Rich can’t nuther. I’ll bet there 
wont be no papers litterin’ up them golden streets 
when we gits up yender.” 

He turned sharply to Mrs. Adams. “Say, Mrs. 
Superintendent,” he said, “do you s’pose thet hus¬ 
band o’ yourn would be mad to death ef I give him 
a leetle old fogy advice?” 

“Never mind what Gladys thinks,” cried Francis. 
“I happen to know that that husband of hers is in 
great need of advice and is eager to have it, and if 
some wise old fogy will give him a few hints he will 
not be such a headstrong young fogy as not to give 
attention.” 

“Francis,” said Uncle Hezekiah, very soberly, “I 
think thet you oughter dress up fer comp’ny down 
there at thet precious Sunday School o’ yourn. A 



38 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


leetle bird told me thet things wasn’t alius very slick 
an’ clean when the childern come to the house o’ 
God, thet sometimes there seemed to be a place fer 
everythin’ an’ everythin’ out o’ its place. Now I’m 
not a-blamin’ you. You inherited a good deal o’ thet 
dirt from your forerunner an’ p’r’aps from his fore¬ 
runner too. An’ I ain’t the one to think thet you kin 
’complish everythin’ in a minute. But I do hope thet 
you’ll git the feelin’ thet dirt ain’t got no proper place 
in a school thet stands fer the clean life an’ thet con¬ 
fusion ain’t in keepin’ with a gospil o’ law an’ order.” 

He turned to the young bride. “Do you know, 
Gladys, you make me religious, you shore do. You 
look ez though you’d jest come out o’ a ban’box. 
You glorify God in your neatness and sweetness. 
S’pose you’d a come up here with thet white skirt all 
yaller down the side an’ a big split on t’other side an’ 
the waist all rumpled an’ mussed. Would I a- 
thought ez well o’ the universe ez I do now? No 
sirree! An’ I wouldn’t a-ben much complimented 
nuther. You dressed yourself up fer comp’ny an’ I 
hope you do it every day. An’ I hope you slick up 
your house an’ your yard every day. ’Cause you 
alius hev company, you know — Francis, prob’ly — 
but One much more important anyhow. Now take 
’Randy an’ me. We’re old folks now an’ we could 
be slack an’ easy ef we’d let ourselves. But ’Randy, 
she ’lows she’s goin’ to hev comp’ny every day — her 



Dressin Up fer Company 


39 


brother. And I ’low I’m goin’ to hev comp’ny, very 
dear an’ important comp’ny — my sister. An’ we 
both know our Father’s goin’ to be here. So we jest 
hev to keep lookin’ fairly decent.” 

The old philosopher paused to see how his words 
were being received and, as all faces beamed, he pro¬ 
ceeded. 

“I guess p’r’aps I’m a crank on neatness an’ order. 
I wuz borned thet way. Ma Harbinger wuz thet way 
afore me. Anythin’ soiled an’ anythin’ out o’ place 
jest makes me itch an’ crawl. They wuz a purty gal 
once, bright ez a dollar too, ‘Randy Ann knows. 
Brother Hiram liked her mighty well an’ I guess 
she might a-had an invite to come an’ be ’Randy’s 
pet sister ef it hadn’t been fer one thing. He couldn’t 
abide it. No slouch or sloven ever could hitch with 
a Harbinger. Wonder where she is now? Bet 
there’s a grease spot on her over-skirt!” 

“Hezekiah,” said Miranda Ann, “tel ’em ’bout 
your bein’ on the school committee.” 

“Why, ’twan’t much,” said her brother. “It wuz 
purty queer to put a feller like me, without any 
book-larnin’, on the school committee. But they 
done it an’ I jest thought thet I oughter do some¬ 
thin’ to show my ’predation. So they had a clean 
schoolhouse thet year an’ a clean school-mistress, — 
an’ a clean school, too. I said thet I wanted a village 
improvement society started right there in thet school 



40 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


an’ I wanted them boys larned somethin’ more im¬ 
portant than Latin, larned to keep their bodies clean 
an’ their minds clean, an’ larned to help make Gaines- 
bury one o’ the beauty-spots o’ the airth, ez God 
intended it to be. I told the teacher never to scold a 
boy fer havin’ a dirty face when her school-room 
wuz all mussed up. She was a good un, an’ she took 
it right. I guess we done some things thet year.” 

’Randy Ann had slipped away, and now she re¬ 
turned with a little table and a spotless cover of 
snowy linen. “Do you folks like honey,” she asked, 
“white clover honey?” Gladys clapped her hands 
like a young girl and Francis joined her. “Wal, 
we’ll hev a leetle honey an’ some Jars-ey milk an’ a 
few o’ my raised biscuits. Ef I’d a-knowed you wuz 
cornin’ I’d a-tried to hev had somethin’ wuth while.” 

“Now, Francis,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “jest take 
’Randy’s table cloth. I guess we’ll all like thet honey 
an’ them biscuits better becus thet linen’s ben washed 
an’ starched an’ ironed. Now you ask them boys 
an’ gals to come to Sunday School fer their spiritual 
meal. It’ll make a lot o’ difference with their appe¬ 
tites jest how you sarve it.” 

“I see your point, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the young 
superintendent, “and the little bird, whatever its 
name, was in the right. We haven’t remembered 
the grace of neatness as we ought. But we will.” 

“Well spoke!” cried his host; “it’s some comfort 



Dressin Up fer Company 


4i 


talkin’ to a feller who’s willin’ to take a hint. Do 
you ever think ’bout Jesus an’ his seamless garmint? 
Do you s’pose it wuz a clean garmint? An’ do you 
ever think ’bout his carpenter shop ? S’pose it wuz 
slick? S’pose the shavin’s wuz kept brushed up an’ 
the, cobwebs swept down ? I wonder ef he wants his 
Sunday School rooms to look like hurrah’s nests! 
I bet they’s a special place in heaven fer good an’ 
faithful janitors.” 

“Tell us just what you think we ought to do,” 
said Gladys. “Do you think that Francis and I 
ought to go to the church with our brooms and scrub 
brushes?” 

“No; I don’t think thet the superintendent an’ the 
minister an’ their wives oughter do the rubbin’ an’ 
scrubbin’ with their own hands; but I do think thet 
they kin git the idee o’ neat-an’-cleanness into the 
noddles o’ everybody — officers, teachers, scholars, 
hired janitor an’ all. I know jest how it goes now. 
Jest the minute thet the benediction’s spoke everyone 
gits a sudden notion thet he’s got to git to dinner 
lickety split. So it’s ‘Hurrah boys’ an’ off they goes. 
An’ everythin’s left in a litter till the nex’ week an’ 
there ’tis. An’ durin’ the week some leetle imp 
comes in an scatters dust over everythin’ an’ there 
thet is. An’ the janitor (Jim Towne might be a 
likely feller) he don’t see thet anybody cares an’ so 
he don’t care.” 




42 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


“I think that I see how we can change things for 

t 

the better,” said the superintendent. 

“Why, o’ course you do! Preach an’ practise a 
leetle an’ see how soon upslickin’ gits to be a habit. 
An’ see how catchin’ it is. Purty soon you’ll git the 
diff’rent classes tryin’ to see which is most up-an- 
comin’ ’bout sich things. ’Twon’t take but a couple 
o’ minutes at the close o’ a session to hev everythin’ 
set to rights. An' the janitor, he’ll see what’s goin’ 
on an’ he’ll git the craze, an’ he’ll carry his head an 
inch higher ’cause he’s got the cleanest plant in the 
county.” 

“And why not make the Sunday School room 
beautiful with pictures and flowers?” asked Gladys. 
“Pm sure we could get them.” 

“Thet’s right. Dress up fer comp’ny. Pieters 
an’ piety! Posies an’ piety! Them seem to b’long 
together. It’d be great to hev some picters o’ the 
good Shepherd an’ sich fer the childern to see every 
Sunday. They’d help teach the lessons. An’ posies 
— I’ll bet them boys an’ them gals would be tickled 
to bring all you could use. 

“Francis, jest you git the idee thet you’re goin’ to 
hev comp’ny nex’ Sunday an’ see what you jest hev 
to do. An’ you he goin’ to hev comp’ny. Them boys 
an’ gals, most important folks in Gainesbury, they’s 
goin’ to be your comp’ny. Show ’em thet you think 
enough on ’em to hev a good-lookin’ room fer ’em. 




Dressin Up fer Company 


43 


Did you ever stop to think thet the only thing lots o’ 
them young folks knows ’bout religion they gits in 
thet Sunday School room — not in the church but 
in the Sunday School? Ef it’s dark an’ dingy an’ 
dismal an’ dirty, you can’t expect them to be hurried 
to death ’bout gittin’ the religion thet thet room 
stands fer. S’pose the day school room is bright an’ 
beautiful an’ the Sunday School room’s dusty an’ 
littered an’ generally disagreeable — what effect’s 
thet goin’ to hev on the minds o’ them precious 
scholars ?” 

“I’m going to have some painting done down 
there,” said Francis, “and I’m going to have new 
seats put in some of the chairs that have been broken 
and worn.” 

“All right; you’ll do,” said Uncle Hezekiah. “But 
I hope thet you’ll alius remember thet other Comp’ny 
thet you’re expectin’ at your session. You alius ask 
Him to come in your prayers an’ I s’pose you think 
He does. Do you fix up, jest as though the King o’ 
Glory wuz to come in ? Squire Bixby, when he come 
back from Europe, told me thet over there they 
keeps their parks a good deal slicker than folks does 
on this side o’ the water, ’cause them royalty wor¬ 
shippers never knows when the king may happen 
along. So everythin’s alius got to be ready fer his 
eyes. Now in your Sunday School you tell the chil- 
dern thet you expect the King every week. You’d 



44 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


better give ’em the idee thet you an’ they hev both 
got to keep dressed up fer the most wonderful an’ 
most important Comp’ny thet anyone ever kin hev.” 

“Uncle Hezekiah,” said Gladys, “I have been told 
that you are always ready to support your argu¬ 
ments with passages from the Scripture. Do you 
know of any that have to do with keeping a Sunday 
School room in good order?” 

''Wal, thet depends. Ef you think the Sunday 
School room is a 'holy place,’ a 'sanctuary,’ a 'taber¬ 
nacle o’ the Most High,’ I guess we could spend the 
rest o’ the afternoon huntin’ up scripter thet tells us 
how to take care o’ it. I see in your openin’ sarvice 
down there you hev the childern read, 'This is the 
house o’ God; this is the gate o’ Heaven.’ Ef we 
really b’lieve thet, I guess we’d better keep thet house 
purty well swept an’ garnished an’ we’d better keep 
thet gate purty well polished an’ clean.” 



VI 


THE NEX’-DOOR MISH’NARY 

Out under the big maples, a quartette ancient when 
he himself was young, Uncle Hezekiah received his 
guests. “A ‘grand old man/ indeed,” murmured 
the minister as they approached, and his companions 
felt the propriety of the tribute. • No beard ever was 
whiter than that of the Gainesbury philosopher and 
no linen ever was more immaculate. 

He had invited the pastor, the superintendent of 
the Sunday School, Deacon Leavenworth and 
Trustee Marvin to run out and give their opinion of 
’Randy Ann’s raspberries. His wheel-chair had 
been rolled to his favorite spot in the deep shade and 
he had beside him a stand with his Bible and some 
favorite books. His outstretched hand and his 
radiant face gave evidence of his welcome. 

“Set right down, Doctor; set right down, Deacon; 
set right down, all o’ you. It’s mighty kind o’ you 
busy men to walk ’way out here jest to indulge an 
old feller in his whim.” 

Joy is contagious. Uncle Hezekiah radiated hap¬ 
piness. The visitors forgot the heat and weariness 


46 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


of their walk and entered into the glad mood of their 
host. 

“Soon’s you’ve hed a chance to hear my choir up 
here an’ git a few breaths from my cologne fact’ry, 
’Randy will be cornin’ in to keep her part in the 
bargain. Purty good voice thet leadin’ singer o’ 
mine’s got — thet proud chap with the yaller an’ 
black suit. Thet’s right, Mr. Oriole, tune up — we 
all like your sentiments.” 

Very promptly ’Randy Ann, just the right sister 
for such a man as Hezekiah Harbinger, appeared 
and seconded his welcome. “Glad to see the four 
most dignurfied men in Gainesbury,” she said; “hope 
you left all the mississes in prime health.” Soon she 
brought a little table, covered it with a snowy cloth, 
and set china for five. Abundant sugar and a glass 
pitcher full of thick, yellow cream gave additional 
promise of something delightful to follow. Every 
mouth watered at the prospect. 

When the old lady had returned to the house, her 
brother winked and whispered as though in strict 
confidence, “’Randy Ann’s a leetle daft on raspber¬ 
ries— takes more pride in ’em than is good for her 
soul. Ef you kin manage to swaller jest a few, even 
ef you don’t like ’em, it’ll tickle her most to death.” 

On a shining glass server the hostess brought two 
great dishes of luscious berries, just ripe enough to 
be at their best. “Here’s red caps,” she said, “an’ 



The Nex -Door Mish*nary 


47 


here's black caps, both from the wall o’ the old Pratt 
medder. I hope you’ll all hev some o’ both an’ a few 
bites o’ this here angel cake.” 

After their plates had been replenished and re¬ 
plenished again, and the cake had become only a 
memory, the tactful lady left the five men by them¬ 
selves, knowing well that her brother must have 
something important on his mind for discussion. 

“ ’Randy Ann’s purty gen’rous with her berries,” 
said Uncle Hezekiah. “Seems to think they’re not 
really hern, but thet the Lord jest gives ’em to her ez 
a kind o’ custodian. Most everybody in town thet 
hasn’t no patch o’ their own is sure to git some 
samples o’ the Harbinger crop. I guess thet’s what 
you preach, ain’t it, Parson — sharin’ the blessin’s? 

“An’ them berry bushes ’emselves,v say, they’s 
great mish’naries too. They’s the pushingest things 
on the farm. They ’pear to hev an idee thet they’ve 
got somethin’ good to give an’ they’ve jest got to 
spread. Ef we didn’t keep ’em back, they’d cover 
the hull plantation in a leetle while. Brother Mar¬ 
vin, how’s your Sunday School gittin’ on?” 

The sudden transition was startling. So was the 
putting to a church trustee a question about the Sun¬ 
day School. Everyone knew that something more 
was coming. 

“Well,” said Mr. Marvin, “it seems to me that 
er — er, well, it seems to me that about the Sunday 



48 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


School you had better ask the superintendent, 
Brother Adams.” 

“No,” replied Uncle Hezekiah, “it’s the church’s 
Sunday School an’ he’s the church’s superintendent. 
I guess the church trustee’s the headquarters fer 
facks.” 

But, as Mr. Marvin had little information to give, 
he did not push him to the point of humiliation. 
“How ’bout it, Brother Adams?” he asked. “I hear 
thet you’re doin’ some good work down there, an’ I 
knowed you would; but air you doin’ it fer enough 
people? Hev you got a big school? An’ is it 
growin’ ?” 

The pastor and superintendent compared notes 
and finally agreed that the membership was almost 
as large as it had been a year before, but that some 
scholars had drifted away. “You see,” said Francis 
Adams, “our idea is to put emphasis on the quality 
of our work. We are working for a good school 
rather than a large one.” 

“Wrong, young man, wrong!” exclaimed the host. 
“You oughter say, 'a good school an’ also a large 
one.’ You say ‘’most ez many members ez a year 
ago.’ Where be the others ? Who be they ? Drifted 
away, hev they? Who let ’em drift?” 

He insisted upon getting down to particular cases. 
It appeared that some children had left the school 
because of little affronts; some because of poor 



The Nex -Door Mish’nary 


49 


clothing; some because of lack of companionship; 
some because of mere indifference. 

'‘Now, there’s thet Jaquith fam’ly,” said the old 
man, “good folks naterally, an’ bright, too. A leetle 
wee-wawy on some p’ints p’r’aps. Need the church 
an’ Sunday School more’n most anybody else in 
Gainesbury. I guess you oughter hev some ‘foller- 
up’ methods like the big business folks an’ not let 
your scholars lose ’emselves.” 

He opened his Bible. “P’r’aps right here would 
be a good time fer a leetle scripter an’ prayer. Par¬ 
son, don’t you want to read ’bout thet commission o’ 
Peter, thet ‘Feed my lambs’ passage, an’ then jest 
say a few words to the Lord?” During the reading 
and the simple prayer a new vision and a new power 
seemed to come to the men in that door-yard group 
and a conviction that God’s work was important 
enough for patience and persistence. 

“Deacon Leavenworth, when the heavenly Father 
give you thet voice he meant that you should use it 
fer his kingdom. I guess you’d better sing fer us 
now thet grand old song, ‘From Greenlan’s Icy 
Mountins.’ ” When the rich, full tenor ceased, there 
was no doubt that in the Gainesbury Sunday School 
there would be a new era of relentless endeavor. 

“Now,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “I jest hev an 
inklin’ thet they’s a good many folks in this town 
thet never has ben to our school an’ p’r’aps not to no 



50 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


other — unchurched, I b’lieve the parson calls ’em. 
Why not git ’em churched? They’s a part o’ our 
field an’ God won’t be satisfied ef we cultivates only 
a third or a half. He wants a hull crop. If the 
gospil’s good fer two hunderd it’s good fer four 
hunderd. Ef this hull town wuz sick an’ we had 
medicine thet would cure, we’d be poor skinflints ef 
we give to only ’bout two folks out o’ five. 

"Jest fer the sake o’ Gainesbury church an’ 
Gainesbury community we oughter git the children 
into the Sunday School — fer what kind o’ a church 
an’ what kind o’ a town will we hev here in a few 
year ef all the young folks go to the dogs? I guess, 
though, it’s fer the sake o’ the children ’emselves 
thet we’re goin’ to work an’ pray the most. I b’lieve 
in mish’nary work, Parson. You know thet I b’lieve 
in it fer Europe an’ Asia an’ Africa. But I 
b’lieve ’specially in the nex’-door mish’nary. God 
wants us to go into the highways an’ the low ways, 
too, right here in Gainesbury. Think so, Dominie? 
Think so, Deacon? Mr. Trustee? Mr. Superin¬ 
tendent? Good! Now I’ve ben thinkin’’bout some 
things to do, an’ ef you want an old codger’s advice 
you kin hev it to boot with the raspberries.” 

Uncle Hezekiah had the power to offer sharp 
criticism and direct suggestion, giving inspiration 
rather than offense; so, very eagerly, his visitors 
urged him to proceed. 



The Nex’-D oor Mish'nary 


51 


“The fust idee’s fer you, Brother Marvin.” 

The church officer made a wry face and waved his 
hand good-naturedly. “I’m booked to reform,” he 
cried. 

“You’re church trustee, but you seem to know 
’bout ez much ’bout the Sunday School ez I do ’bout 
embroidering handkerchiefs. I s’picion thet you’re 
ez well posted ez the other trustees and thet really we 
hev ben carryin’ on two seperet enstitutions down 
there, one a church an’ t’other a Sunday School. 
’Tain’t right. Them children is the responsibility o’ 
the church. Thet’s one reason why I ast you an’ 
the Deacon to come ’long. You people must git 
right behind thet Sunday School with your big 
brains an’ big hearts — an’ with your big pocket- 
books too. Course we can’t hev a big Sunday School 
without spendin’ money on it. But we could never 
spend our money no better.” 

Turning to the superintendent, he said, “Young 
man, jest let me take your hand a minute. You’re 
all right. An’ you’re in the right place. Now you 
an’ the Dominie jest arrange to git a membership 
committee app’inted fer thet school. Hev good 
people on it who’ll make a business o’ their business. 
Tell ’em to make out some lists o’ folks who are not 
in the Sunday School but might be an’ oughter be — 
long lists ’cause there’s a hull lot o* sich folks ; n 
Gainesbury. There oughter be lists o’ them thet 




52 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 

ain’t never b’longed, an’ lists o them thet’s b’longed 
an’ backslid. There oughter be lists o’ old folks an’ 
lists o’ children an’ lists o’ babies. An’ every time a 
fam’ly moves to town they oughter be listed. 

“Now, them lists is the workin’ orders fer the 
nex’-door mish’naries. Jest write at the top o’ every 
one on ’em, so’s it can’t be forgot, them words from 
the last chapter o’ John, ‘Feed my lambs.’ 

“You must work systematic. Make every teacher 
a nex’-door mish'nary an’ every scholar a nex’-door 
mish’nary. Git ’em all fired up an’ filled up with the 
idee o’ bringin’ folks to blessin’. Hev lots o’ rejoic¬ 
in’, with singin’ an’ praise, when the new folks come 
in. Honor those thet git ’em. But you must work 
systematic. Sometimes it’s the pas an’ mas thet’ll 
hev to be won; send jest the best people to do your 
talkin’ — study thet. The woman who could say jest 
the right thing in jest the right way to Mrs. Smithers 
might be like a ches’nut burr in October to Mrs. Bald¬ 
win. Fer some children, children is the best mish’¬ 
naries, but ’tain’t alius so. Some likes to hev old 
folks think on ’em an’ take trouble to ask ’em. So 
you’ve got to consider every time. 

“Then I guess your membership committee’ll hev • 
to try to git folks together, the school folks an’ the 
other folks. Hev some picnic, invitin’ some thet 
don’t b’long. There’s my woods, ez purty ez God 
ever made, an’ you kin use ’em every week ef you 



The Nex’-D oor Mish'nary 


53 


wanter. Hev some parties. Make the outsiders an’ 
the insiders like each other — an’ bimeby they’ll all 
be insiders. 

“I jest expect to hear thet you four men hev en¬ 
listed this very week ez nex’-door mish’naries, an’ 
thet you’ll hev a hunderd more workin’ with you in 
a month. An’ I expect thet Gainesbury school is 
goin’ to be bigger ’cause it’s better an’ better ’cause 
it’s bigger.” 

“Amen,” said the minister. “Amen,” said each 
of the visitors. 

Uncle Hezekiah looked around with glad, shining 
eyes. “Thet sounds like business,” he said. “I’m 
glad you like the lesson o’ the raspberries.” 

His hand went forth for his Bible. “Do you 
know,” he said, “I jest can’t leave this old Book 
alone. It alius has somethin’ thet jest fits. Now 
think ’bout this nex’-door mish’nary. Here it is 
right in the fust chapter o’ John. Andrew,— 
Philip — they didn’t jest hang right on to the hem o’ 
Christ’s garmint, seekin’ his blessin’ jest fer ’em- 
selves. An’ they didn’t go off a thousand mile 
nuther. 'Andrew findeth his own brother, Simon.’ 
An’ then, 'Philip findeth Nathanael.’ Nex’-door 
mish’naries! Parson, I b’lieve another few words o’ 
prayer would make this day jest ’bout perfick.” 



VII 

PADDLIN’ YOUR OWN CANOE 

“Ya-as,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “it’s a purty good 
plan to paddle your own canoe, ef —” he gave a 
whimsical look around the group of eager listeners — 
“It’s a purty good idee ef you ain’t got fur to go, 
an’ ef you ain’t got many passengers, an’ ef you 
don’t care much when you gits there!” 

The minister glanced at his wife and nodded sig¬ 
nificantly. The superintendent threw back his head 
and laughed heartily. “A hit,” he cried, “Uncle 
Hezekiah, a palpable hit!” 

It was during a lawn party at the Harbinger farm, 
a party wholly and solely for the benefit of the 
officers and teachers of the Gainesbury Sunday 
School. They were all there — as might have been 
expected considering that the invitation came from 
the most popular host and hostess in the whole 
county. Some walked out; some motored; but the 
majority rode in the hay wagon, which Uncle He¬ 
zekiah had sent out with instructions that Rich Has¬ 
kins was to bring back “jest ez many ez could hang 
on to the riggin’.” 

No jollier company ever assembled in Gainesbury. 


Paddlin’ Your Own Canoe 


55 


It is sometimes said that religious people always 
wear long faces; but there was not a countenance of 
gloom in that whole gathering. It is sometimes said 
that Christians do nothing but sing doleful Psalms 
about the poor, lost world; but at the Harbinger 
party there were laughter and shouting and hearty 
merriment. The guests left false dignity behind, 
mindful only of the true dignity of sincerity and 
good sense. 

The old man’s chair was wheeled out so that he 
could welcome each new arrival, and Miranda Ann 
was close by to help do the honors. “Wal said! Ef 
here ain’t leetle Lucy, growed up an’ married an’ 
teaching Sunday School! An’ here’s Joe Knowlton, 
banker an’ broker. Set right down, Joe, an’ ketch 
your breath. An’ now who’s thet young thing up 
there on thet hay rack? Martha Jane? You must 
hev flew up there, Martha Jane. Don’t you want 
me to come an’ help you down?” And so on. It 
made no difference what Uncle Hezekiah said. 
Everyone knew that he was expressing the warmest 
of welcomes from a heart full of genuine good will. 

“Now, jest make yourselves to home, do,” said 
Miranda Ann. Her words were quite unnecessary. 
Everyone was at home out at the Harbinger place. 
No moments were lost in beginning the good time. 
Some threw themselves on the grass and delighted 
in the feeling and the perfume of the sweet, whole- 



56 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


some earth, some played croquet, some pitched 
quoits, some went out to see Miranda Ann’s holly¬ 
hocks and dahlias. 

After a while came the picnic lunch. It was an¬ 
nounced as a “Dutch treat,” and everyone had 
brought a contribution, but Uncle Hezekiah and his 
sister claimed the privilege of adding a few “extries” 
— such as Jersey milk, home-made butter, raspberry 
jam, white clover honey, sweet cucumber pickles and 
fresh raised doughnuts. 

“What shall we do with the fragments?” cried 
the minister. “We have more than twelve basket¬ 
fuls.” 

“I guess the deacons kin find a place,” said the 
host. 

After all had eaten and were seated on the grass 
or in comfortable chairs around the snowy linen 
which Aunt Miranda had insisted must be spread 
for the feast, a spirit of quiet contentment came over 
the company. “I s’pose,” said Uncle Hezekiah, “I 
might hev had some decorations fer this lawn party, 
some paper lanterns an’ sich like; but I kinder 
thought ez how you might enjoy the green grass an’ 
the red poppies jest ez well. I might hev hired an 
orchestry to come out an’ play; but I didn’t know 
but you’d be satisfied with the robins an’ bobo- 
linkuns. I might hev had some perfum’ry scattered 
’round ez they say the rich folks do; but I thought 



Paddlin' Your Own Canoe 


57 


you’d git along with the breeze from thet field o’ 
red an’ white clover.” 

“Uncle Hezekiah,” said Gladys Adams, “don’t 
you ever try to improve on Nature — not such Na¬ 
ture as you have out here.” 

“Now that we are all quiet,” said Doctor Fair- 
lake, “why not have Uncle Hezekiah give us a little 
talk on our Sunday School work. I know that he 
must have something on his mind for the benefit of 
us struggling workers.” 

“Yes,” said Francis Adams, the superintendent, 
“we have been making some progress down there 
and we are pretty happy about it but, Uncle He¬ 
zekiah, we know that we are still a good ways from 
the ideal. What lack we yet?” 

“Wal,” said the old man, smiling over his glasses, 
“I didn’t git you out here to give you no lecture; but 
you’ve asked me a question an’ it wouldn’t be perlite 
fer me not to answer. From all thet I kin hear I 
jedge thet what you need is a declaration o’ inter - 
dependence. You folks is puttin’ in a lot o’ good 
work an’ you’re gittin’ results. But you’d go a good 
deal better an’ a good deal faster ef you didn’t try 
to go it alone.” 

“I remember when I wuz a young feller I us’ter 
think thet I’d paddle my own canoe. Huh! I larned 
a few things. It’s a purty good plan to paddle your 
own canoe ef. But God never meant us fer solitary 



58 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


effort. He meant us to depend on each other an’ to 
help each other.” So began Uncle Hezekiah’s little 
homily on the grace and wisdom of cooperation. 

“Oh, they’s farmers, some o’ ’em not a thousand 
mile from here, who is workin’ their grandads’ land 
an’ usin’ their grandads’ idees. Some sich never 
goes to a fair — ’fraid o’ ketchin’ some new notion. 
Some does go to the fair an’ spends the hull time 
lookin’ at the Circassian beauties an’ the fat ladies 
an’ the two-headed calves. They goes back home to 
do the same old jobs in the same old ways. 

“Now, Ebenezer Grimshaw wasn’t thet kind. I 
bet he wuz one o’ them boy questioners they tell 
’bout. He sartin wuz lookin’ fer new idees every 
day — not thet he took up with ’em all. Some he 
liked an’ some he didn’t, but he alius had his eyes 
wide open. Whenever he’d meet a stranger he 
seemed to ask, ‘Now what kin this chap larn me?’ 
An’ sometimes he’d go a good ways to meet him. 

“You folks don’t remember Ebenezer — only 
jest Martha Jane does. He wuz afore your time. 
But you do use the Grimshaw library an’ like the 
looks o’ it. Eb, he giv thet library to his native 
town. Died a millionaire several times over; but he 
wasn’t borned with no silver spoon in his mouth; no, 
sir, a wooden one. He didn’t hev a dollar to start 
with, Eb didn’t — he wuz jest a farm-hand. But 
purty soon he wuz the best farm-hand in these parts. 



Paddlin’ Your Own Canoe 


59 


Then he begun to rise an' he never stopped risin’ till 
he died. An’ I s’pose maybe Eb’s busy studyin’ up 
there an’ tryin’ to larn how to make the celestial 
fields more yieldin’.” 

“1 have heard of Mr. Grimshaw as a very friendly 
man,” said the pastor. 

“Ya-as, a friend to everybody an’ everybody a 
friend to him. He seemed to think thet to be a 
neighbor wuz to be a partner too. So he wuz alius 
swappin’ work an’ swappin’ idees. A good many 
likely farmers round here got their get-up from 
Ebenezer. He wuz a great hand to go visitin’ — 
jest to see how the other feller managed. At the 
fair he got loaded up with the best idees fer raisin’ 
hens, an’ hosses, an’ pertaters, an’ fodder. Bimeby 
he started the grange an’ got some of the big-bugs 
to come an’ tell Gainesbury farmers how to make 
the best o’ their land. An’ he took some papers an’ 
magazines, an’ read ’em too. He didn’t fly right off 
the handle over everythin’ he heard an’ read; but he 
wuz open to conviction. When he went west we 
knowed thet Gainesbury had had a big loss but the 
West had had a big gain. 

“Wal, we need Ebenezers everywhere.. I guess 
we’ve got to hev ’em in the public schools. I see 
they has their teacher’s magazines now, an’ their 
visitin’ days, an’ their institutes, an’ their summer 
schools. The teacher thet tried to paddle his own 



6 o Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


canoes in those days would purty soon paddle hisself 
right out o’ a job. 

“Now I wonder how ’tis ’bout thet other school, 
the school thet larns boys an’ gals, not how to sub- 
strack an’ divide, but how to live honestly with their 
fellermen, an’ how to find their God an’ obey his 
laws. I’ve hearn that there be folks to-day thet’s 
tryin’ to carry out the idees o’ thet Robert (What’s 
his name? Raikes?), o’ thet Robert Raikes thet in¬ 
vented the Sunday School. He wouldn’t own ’em, 
not fer a minute. He wuz a pergressive, a go-ahead 
feller.” 

“Suppose we decide that we don’t want to paddle 
our own canoes, what would you have us do?” asked 
the superintendent. 

“I’d hev you jine. I’d hev you jine with the other 
Sunday Schools o’ your church, an’ your town, an’ 
your country. I’d hev you go into partnership with 
’em in makin’ plans an’ in carryin’ ’em out. I s’pose 
they’s papers printed, ain’t there, fer teachers o’ 
leetle folks, an’ teachers o’ dozen-year-olds, an’ 
superintendents an’ securtaries an’ all the rest? Do 
you take ’em here in Gainesbury?” 

“I’m afraid not,” confessed Francis. “You see 
we never have done anything of that sort and it 
doesn’t occur to us to begin.” 

“I’d begin right away ef I wuz you. Hev every 
teacher an’ every officer hev some good paper full up 



Paddlin’ Your Own Canoe 


61 


with bright idees. Pay the bill from your treasury, 
of course. Ef the teacher does the work, you 
oughter pay fer the tools. Then they prob’ly is 
books. I’ve hearn thet in some seeks they’s Asso¬ 
ciations thet lends out books fer Sunday School 
workers to read. Wuth lookin’ into, seems to me. I 
guess, too, they’s institutes fer Sunday School folks, 
ain’t they?” 

“Yes,” said the minister’s wife, “there’s to be one 
in our county next week.” 

“You’re goin’, Mrs. Fairlake,” said Uncle He- 
zekiah. “I’m not goin 1 myself, but I’m goin’ to buy 
a few railroad tickets jest the same. The minister’s 
going’ an’ so’s his wife an’ so’s eight others o’ you. 
You decide which an’ I’ll pay the bill. O’ course 
Gainesbury can’t let sich a chance ez thet slip by. 
Go an’ git your brains stirred up by folks that put 
their hull time into sich matters. Then see.” 

“I’ve been thinking,” said -the superintendent, 
“that it might be a good thing for some of our 
workers to go visiting once in a while; for instance, 
to have a couple of our primary teachers go over to 
Gresham, where they have a fine elementary depart¬ 
ment, and study organization and method. And on 
another day, I might go to Rockford and observe 
the work of their superintendent, who is said to be 
a star.” 

Uncle Hezekiah clapped his hands and the others 



62 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


joined in — especially the primary teachers. “Thet’s 
the kind o’ a leader Gainesbury’s got,” exclaimed the 
old man, in delight, “one thet’ll take a new idee an’ 
then go you one better with it! Now, why not hev 
some visitors come here sometimes an’ talk at your 
get-togethers. Hev some o’ them city fellers ef you 
want ’em. But I guess thet some folks thet’s actually 
doin’ things over at Gresham or Rockford would do 
you jest ez much good. 

“Then aint’ they some Association in our seek 
thet jest looks out fer the Sunday Schools an’ tries 
to help ’em grow an’ do good work? Seems to me 
’Randy Ann an’ me gives somethin’ fer some sich so¬ 
ciety.” 

“Yes,” said Pearl Dinsmore, the secretary, “we 
pay our dues to our national organization.” 

“An, what do you git fer your money? I s’pose 
them officers is alius writin’ to the minister or the 
superintendent or the securtary, tryin’ to send some¬ 
thin’ or do somethin’ to make the Gainesbury Sun¬ 
day School bigger an’ better. Do you let ’em give 
you your money’s wuth ? Or do you try to paddle 
your own canoe? 

“It don’t seem to me I’d travel in a canoe at all ef 
I had any big amount o’ cargo to carry. Canoes is 
purty leetle things an’ may be all right ef you want 
to git off an’ not be too sociable. But they ain’t made 
fer sarvice. An’ they ain’t made fer comp’ny. Bet- 



Paddlin’ Your Own Canoe 


63 


ter hev a big merchantman fer your Sunday School, 
with a full crew needed; an’ then git her into a fleet 
with the big uns.” 

“We thank you, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the super¬ 
intendent, “and you will see that we take advantage 
of your advice.” 

“Don’t thank me, young man. This ain’t no 
original doctern with me. Read your Bible. It’s 
full o’ git-together. Read thet chapter o’ Paul where 
he sez ‘We are members o’ one another!’ Thet’s the 
idee. Now, while we’re all quiet here, let’s hev jest 
a word o’ prayer by the parson. An’ then I want to 
hear you all sing, beginnin’ with ‘Blest be the tie 
thet binds.’ ” 



VIII 


FISHIN’ FER FISHERS 

“They’s hope! They’s hope!” Uncle Hezekiah 
beamed at his callers with good will and optimism. 
“When sich a comp’ny o’ good-lookin’ folks ez you 
be gits their heads together to make a Sunday School 
go, it’s goin’ to go” 

“If there’s a wise man in Israel to tell them what 
to do and how to do it,” said President Chrichton. 

The old man might well have felt honored as he 
looked over the group of men who sat about his 
fireplace, having travelled to the Harbinger farm for 
a most unusual meeting. The substantial men of 
Gainesbury were there, men who in their own affairs 
had achieved success and who, therefore, had been 
chosen directors of the wide-awake and aggressive 
village church. There were a merchant, a doctor, a 
high school principal and two prosperous farmers. 
With them were the pastor and Lawyer Francis 
Adams, superintendent of the Sunday School. 

They were self-invited, but, when the conference 
was arranged, Miranda Ann had insisted that their 
wives must come along so that she could carry out 


Fishin fer Fishers 


65 


a plan for “pleasure after business.” So in a distant 
part of the big house, before a roaring fire, seven 
women were the delighted guests of Hezekiah’s hos¬ 
pitable and highly original sister. 

Aunt ’Randy liked to serve pop-corn and Jack- 
wax, and this was the time of the “first run” of sap, 
when the maple sugar was at its richest and best. 
The whole company came early in the afternoon, the 
men promptly settling down for “the order of the 
day,” the women visiting and sewing, while their 
mouths watered for the promised sugar on snow. 

“Wal, Joe Marvin, how he you? And Tom 
Chrichton, wal, wal! Do you ’member the time thet 
we two won the tater race at the fair, finishin’ neck 
an’ neck? I guess you could beat me now, Tom!” 
With a cordial handshake, a friendly smile, just the 
right word for each, the saintly man gave welcome 
to his guests. 

“Hezekiah,” said Banker Chrichton, president of 
the board of directors, “We’ve come out to talk to 
you about our Sunday School. Our minister has 
an idea that religious education is one of the great 
opportunities and responsibilities of the church and 
that part of the duty of the directors is to make the 
Sunday School big and efficient. We men want to 
hold up his hands. We want to be fair, too, to 
Francis, who is doing hard work as superintendent, 
and good work, too. That’s why we are here to-day. 



66 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


We want to talk over with you some of the big prob¬ 
lems of the Gainesbury Sunday School, because we 
all think of you as something like a pastor of the 
pastor, a superintendent of the superintendent and 
a director of the directors.” All nodded their 
heads. 

Uncle Hezekiah disregarded the personal allusion 
and caught the significance of a gathering of such 
men with such a motive. “They’s hope! They’s 
hope!” he exclaimed. 

The superintendent brought up some of his diffi¬ 
culties and the minister brought up some of his. 
Uncle Hezekiah listened attentively, made some pat, 
semi-humorous remark regarding each point that 
seemed to more than half solve the problem, and 
repeatedly said to the directors, “Now, Mister Men, 
here’s a place fer some good, willin’ workers. I 
guess a leetle time an’ a leetle money frum head¬ 
quarters’ll help right along here.” And it did seem 
that with the eager cooperation of that fine group of 
successful citizens most of the stumbling blocks 
would speedily be pushed aside. 

“There’s one other problem, Uncle Hezekiah,” 
said Francis Adams. “There’s one other problem 
that’s harder than all the others and I’ve saved it 
for the last.” 

“Ya-as, your teacher problem, ain’t it?” 

“Why, yes, how did you know?” 



Fishin’ fer Fishers 


67 


“Wall, I thought prob’ly ’twould be. ’Twould be 
in any school I could ’magine out. Jest what is the 
trouble ?” 

“The trouble is I can’t get enough teachers for 
my classes — I could get dozens of new scholars if 
only I had teachers for them. And (I say it just to 
you men) some of the teachers that I have are abso¬ 
lutely unfitted for their work. But I have to take 
them, because I can get no better.” 

“I see,” said their host, with a magnetic smile, 
“Sunday School teachers is fishers o’ men; an’ 
you’re fishin’ fer fishers. An’ you don’t git a very 
good ketch. Wal, I’ve hearn thet thet’s the sitera- 
tion in some other Sunday Schools, in fack in most 
Sunday Schools. Thet don’t help your mis’ry any 
though, jest to know thet you hev comp’ny. Let’s 
see jest what kin be did.” 

“Would it be a good plan to pay our teachers?” 
asked Director Marvin. 

“Could you do it?” 

“We could pay a little, I guess.” 

“Course you could git some money ef you needed 
it; but would money pay fer jest the kind o’ work 
you want in your Sunday School ? Could you pay a 
mother fer what she does fer her leetle gal ? Some 
work’s too hard an’ too high fer dollars an’ cents. 
They’s a reward fer it, though. But ef you try to 
pay it with bank checks, you make it cheap an’ com- 



68 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


mon. You’d be robbin’ your teachers instead o’ 
payin’ ’em. 

“But I guess you’ve got to go a leetle deeper ef 
you want to git teachers enough an’ good enough. 
You can’t hire ’em into teachin’; you can’t scold 
’em; you can’t tease ’em. You’ve got to draw ’em. 
There’s thet leetle iron tack-nail down there. I kin 
yell at it till I’m red in the face an’ ’twon’t budge. 
I kin plead with it in a voice ez sweet ez Jenny Lind’s 
an’ ’twon’t budge. But ef I take my leetle hoss-shoe 
magnet, I kin make thet tack hump itself ez though 
’twas a hungry pick’rel arter a minner. So, they’s 
ways to ’tract your teachers. 

“One thing is jest to spread the idee ev’rywhere 
thet your Sunday School’s a great institution with a 
big work to do. Talk up your school. Git your own 
minds clear ’bout its importance — you, Mister Min¬ 
ister, an’ you, Mister Superintendent, an’ you, Mister 
Directors. They’s some folks runnin’ Sunday 

Schools thet don’t more’n one-tenth b’lieve in ’em — 

* 

keep ’em goin’ jest ’cause they alius hev, or ’cause 
other folks has their schools. Now, jest you think 
this thing clear through fer yourselves, decidin’ fer 
good an’ all jest about how important it is to bring 
young folks up to be acquainted with their heavenly 
Father an’ to be decent an’ fair toward their feller- 
men. Then talk up your school. I guess the parson 
won’t be content to say the same thing week after 




Fishiri fer Fishers 


69 


week: ‘The Sunday School will meet at the usual 
hour/ He’ll give his notices ez though they meant 
somethin’ to him hisself — somethin’ big. And purty 
often he’ll say somethin’ in his sarmons ’bout the 
school, besides once in a while givin’ a whole preach 
to religious edication. An’ when he goes ’round 
callin’ he’ll drap a good word fer the Sunday School 
in ’bout ev’ry place where he goes. An’ all the rest 
o’ you will jest natcherally advertise thet school an’ 
ev’rybody’ll git a right idee ’bout its work an’ its 
sarvice. ’Twon’t be so hard to git teachers then.” 

The visitors showed that they had caught the 
point and were ready for more. 

“ ’Nother thing, be fair to the teachers you’ve 
already got — an’ then be a leetle more’n jest fair, 
be ginerous. Make ’em happy in their work. Ef 
your present teachers is a sad, discontented lot, ’tain’t 
much wonder thet you can’t git no more. But ef 
they’re bubblin’ over with joy an’ enthusi-ism o’ 
course others’ll want to hev a share. Hev some 
’predation fer the hard work done, an’ show your 
’predation. You can’t pay your teachers, but you 
kin thank ’em — an’ say, how it does help along in 
this world jest to drap a few thanks where they’s 
needed. You know teachers gits a lot o’ hard 
knocks. Give ’em a leetle ointment o’ gratitude. 

“Do ev’rything you kin to help the present teachers 
to be successful. Fix ’em out with whatever they 




70 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


need to work with — maps, an’ picters, an’ black¬ 
boards’ an’ book, an’ tables, an’ what not. No won¬ 
der some Sunday School classes don’t ’complish 
much. S’pose I sent a hired man out to plow an’ 
give him jest one o’ them ’ere crooked sticks sech ez 
they use over ’mongst the heathens — would he do 
much? Would it be easy fer me to git more hands? 
I think the directors here ought to hev an under¬ 
stand^’ with the teachers thet anything thet would 
help fer the best work would be bought, an’ bought 
cheerful, too. I’d hev ev’ry teacher hev some good 
books at the expense o’ the church an’ the very best 
magazines ’bout Sunday School work. I’d hev the 
teachers sent visitin’ to see how things is done in 
other places. An’ I’d hev them sent off to summer 
schools an’ sich gathering. I’d jest keep their faces 
shinin’. They’d do better work fer your boys an’ 
gals. An’ they’d jest make ev’rybody else fall over 
themselves to git some o’ your classes to teach.” 

“All right, Uncle Hezekiah,” said Philip Carleton, 
youngest director, “you’ve hit us, all right. We’ve 
been thoughtless. But now, supposing we do all 
that you’ve suggested and we get all our teachers 
radiant, what more can we do to get the recruits that 
Francis feels that he must have?” 

“Seems to me thet you ought to make a list o’ all 
the folks in the parish, old an’ young, male an’ 
female, rich an’ poor, thet are fitted to be Sunday 



Fishiri fer Fishers 


7 * 


School teachers. Make it out, not in somebody's 
head, but right out in black an’ white. PYaps 
’twould be a short one; but pYaps ’twould s’prise 
you by bein’ so long. I s’pose you’d put down some 
folks thet you wouldn’t be very apt to git, but never 
mind. There you’ve got your possibilities. When 
you need a teacher, go to thet list an’ pick out the 
person thet’s most likely to fit. Ef you can’t git him, 
look over the list agin. Lots o’ folks works too 
much in the air. Jest by puttin’ a man’s name on 
your list, you begin to send him mental messages thet 
he ought to be a teacher. P’r’aps ’twould be right 
to say thet by thet act you begin to pray that he’ll 
jine your ranks. 

“Then I guess you ought to hev another list — a 
list o’ them thet ain’t fitted fer teaohin’ now but may 
be bimeby. Them folks you ought to begin to train. 
Some ain’t old enough to teach — but they will be 
one o’ these days. Some don’t know enough to teach 
— but they could larn. Couldn’t they be some kind 
o’ class formed jest to teach sich folks to teach?” 

“You know, Uncle Hezekiah, there are Teacher 
Training classes in a good many schools,” said the 
superintendent. 

“No, I didn’t know it, but I knew thet there ought 
to be. Tell us ’bout ’em.” 

So Francis told some of the facts about the 
Teacher Training movements in the modern Sunday 



72 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


School, about the well-planned courses on the Bible, 
on pedagogy, on psychology, on school management, 
and about examinations to be taken and certificates 
to be earned. 

“Wal said! Wal said!” exclaimed the old man, 
with shining eyes. “Ain’t thet fine! A Teacher 
Training class fer Gainesbury! ‘Course you’re goin’ 
to hev one. Wish I could be in it! Parson, some o’ 
the lessons’ll be in your line; an’, Francis, some’ll 
be in yourn. It’ll be a great class. When’ll you be 
startin’, do you guess?” 

The minister looked at the superintendent and the 
superintendent looked at the minister. 

“Pretty soon, I think, don’t you, Francis?” said 
the pastor. 

“Vcry soon,” replied the superintendent. 

The directors looked happy. 

“You’ll hev a waitin’ list o’ teachers. P’raps 
you’ll hev some folks mad ez settin’ hens ’cause they 
can’t hev classes ez quick ez they want ’em. Still 
you may hev some troubles left. You may find it 
hard arter all to git jest the teacher you want fer 
some perticuler class. Be keerful who does the 
axin . I s’pose you 11 hev some one boss over your 
hull caboodle, over all teachers an’ classes. What do 
you call him, Francis?” 

“A supervisor.” 

“Ya-as. Wal, sometimes he’ll be the right one to 



Fishiri fer Fishers 


73 


ask a man or woman to take a class and sometimes 
he’ll be jest the wrong one. The Angel Gabriel 
wouldn’t alius be right. He’s got to hev sense to 
pick out the best one, an’ sometimes to 1 git through 
someone else a teacher he couldn’t posserbly git his- 
self. The minister may be the right one; or the 
superintendent; or some other teacher; or leetle 
Jim’s grandma. Sometimes the boys an’ gals their- 
selves ought to do the axin’. Thet super-what-ye- 
call-him ought to study the case all through an’ not 
go off at half-cock.” 

“Thank you for all your good advice, Uncle He- 
zekiah, and it has all been good,” said Francis 
Adams. “I know that we’re going to solve our 
problem.” 

“Yes,” said President Chrichton, “it is more than 
half solved already. Gentlemen of the board, I feel 
that we directors must get behind this school and 
push for all we are worth. What do you say?” 

“So say we all of us!” 

“Ef thet’s settled,” said the host, “I guess them 
gals in t’other room is gittin’ ranxious fer their 
Jack-wax. Rich Haskin’s all ready with the surrup 
an’ the snow. Tell ’Randy thet the men folks has 
got their sweet teeth with ’em, thirty-two on ’em to 
a man. Jest one minute, though, ’fore we breaks up. 
Parson, Sunday School work sartin is a matter fer 
prayer.” 



74 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


The minister prayed. Or better, he expressed the 
deep petitions that were springing up in every heart. 
After the “amen,” spoken spontaneously by all, 
Uncle Hezekiah held out his hand, his face radiant 
as though with patriarchal benediction, and in a 
voice as rich and clear as though he were still in his 
prime, he quoted his favorite words from Daniel, 
“They that are wise shall shine as the brightness of 
the firmament; and they that turn many to righteous¬ 
ness as the stars for ever and ever.” 



IX 


THE BEST OF GOOD PARTIES 

Little Bob sat on the right knee and little Fannie 
on the left. Uncle Hezekiah, equally delighted with 
the boy and the girl, exemplified the spirit of true 
democracy, for his great heart had place for the son 
of the Fairchilds, Gainesbury’s traditional pluto¬ 
crats and aristocrats, and the daughter of the Gol- 
pins, of whom common speech declared that “none 
o’ them never did amount to nothin’.” Indeed, there 
was a special tenderness in his thoughts as he re¬ 
membered the disadvantages of both children, one 
overfed and one underfed, one spoiled by indulgence 
and one spoiled by neglect. 

It was near the end of the old man’s party for the 
Primary children of the Sunday School, one of a 
series of jolly gatherings, which, during the summer, 
brought different groups of church folks out to the 
Harbinger homestead. In one regard Uncle He¬ 
zekiah seemed quite reckless in giving his invita¬ 
tions : he never seemed to remember social distinc¬ 
tions in making up his companies. Indeed, when 
asking his adult guests, he seemed sometimes to for- 


j6 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


get even moral distinctions, bringing saints and sin¬ 
ners into unaccustomed association. But in another 
regard he was very careful: he drew age limits 
among the children with relentless law. The Pri¬ 
mary children came at one time, the Juniors at an¬ 
other, the Intermediate pupils at still another. “You 
can’t make ’em mix,” he declared. “Six-year-olds 
want rubber balls an’ fourteen-year-olds want balls 
harder’n flint rocks. Paul from the Primary’s not 
much more’n a baby in some things, but Ike from 
the Intermediate’s most a man an’ thinks he’s a hull 
one. Trouble with some o’ them Sunday School 
picnics I hear ’bout is thet they try to ’muse leetle 
kids an’ big kids with the same idees, an’ it can’t 
be did.” 

This was the day when the little folks were regent 
and Miranda Ann thought that away down in his 
heart her brother enjoyed this party the best of all. 
But then, she had thought the same thing when he 
had invited the boys of high school age, and when 
he had entertained the young married couples, and, 
indeed, on every one of these happy occasions. At 
any rate to-day he was in his element, and it is safe 
to say that not one of his young guests had more 
genuine fun than did he. In charge of the children 
came the superintendent of the department, Miss 
Elizabeth Robbins, a “maiden lady,” truly a lady 
and truly a maiden in her youthful spirit and her 



The Best of Good Parties 


77 


readiness to adopt new ideas; and with her came her 
assistant, Miss Mary Frances Freeman, and her 
enthusiastic teachers, Miss Helen Chamberlain, Miss 
Molly Foster and Miss Harriet Monroe. 

Rich Haskins went to town to “pick up” the com¬ 
pany, giving them first of all a “straw-ride” out to 
the farm, which means that the big hay-rigging was 
put on the farm wagon and covered with straw so 
that it furnished comfortable seats for all, much to 
be preferred to the most gorgeous chariot of any 
royal potentate. In some mysterious way, several 
cow-bells and tin horns happened to be embedded in 
the straw, and it took those youngsters but a minute 
to bring them forth and put them to their proper use. 
Neighbors along the route came rushing to the doors 
and windows at the unaccustomed din. “It’s an¬ 
other of Hezekiah Harbinger’s frolics,” they would 
say, and smile and silently give thanks that such a 
citizen dwelt in Gainesbury. 

Uncle Hezekiah sat in his wheel-chair under the 
big maples and Aunt Miranda stood by his side. In 
attitude, in every expression, as well as in word, they 
said, “Welcome, welcome!” It was quite easy to 
understand why they were called “Uncle” and 
“Aunt.” Through strange circumstances, these two 
great souls, fitted above most others for parenthood, 
had no children of their own blood, but from their 
hearts surged a mighty love for all little ones, and it 




78 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


seemed almost true that they had a family relation¬ 
ship with the whole community. 

“Wal, wal!” exclaimed the young-old man. “How 
many folks has come to-day to drive me off my 
premises? How many noses, Miss Robbins? 
Twenty-four, heh ? Twenty-four besides the grown¬ 
ups. ’Leven boys an’ thirteen gals! Us men-folks’ll 
hev to hustle to hold our own.” There is no doubt 
that the “men-folks” did hustle; but then the 
“women-folks” hustled too, so it would be quite 
impossible to say which made the more noise or had 
the better sport. 

The spirit of jollity reigned supreme from the first 
to the last, as Uncle Hezekiah believed it should. 
“Let ’em laugh an’ shout an’ tumble ef they wants 
to,” he said. “ ’Pears to me God meant ’em to do 
jest thet at their time o’ life.” As a matter of fact, 
there was quite a definite program for the afternoon, 
but the old man thought it not necessary to mention 
it. He felt quite sure that the children would want 
to run simply wild for a little while, rolling on the 
green lawn, exploring the big barns, getting ac¬ 
quainted with the cows, the chickens and the pigs; 
that after a season they would enjoy some games 
appropriate for Primary folks; that then they would 
suddenly become woefully hungry; and that after 
they had disposed of the good food that was in store 
they would be ready to quiet down and hear a few 



The Best of Good Parties 


79 


of an old man’s stories. He let things take their 
course, and surely enough the afternoon’s fun shaped 
itself in just that way. Some of the younger teach¬ 
ers had worried quite a little about how the children 
might be kept contented and well-behaved, but Miss 
Robbins, who had been to the Harbinger farm be¬ 
fore, had no misgivings. 

In one regard, however, the children took matters 
into their own hands. It was not the grass that 
received their attention; it was not the cattle nor the 
pets; it was Uncle Hezekiah himself. They fairly 
swarmed about him. All of them besieged him. A 
very remarkable fact was that no child ever was shy 
with this old gray-beard, however timid with ordi¬ 
nary strangers. Every youngster seemed to know at 
once that he belonged to Uncle Hezekiah and Uncle 
Hezekiah belonged to him. This man had the tact 
to become all things to all children and by all means 
he won them all. He could quiet them in their little 
distresses as well as any woman. When five-year- 
old Ben cut his finger and was inclined to think that 
he was seriously if not mortally wounded, his host 
suggested that if only they could find somebody who 
had a long beard and would tie a hair around the 
injured member all would soon be well. It took Ben 
only a second to find such a man, and only another 
to climb into his lap and try the experiment in heal¬ 
ing. And, surely enough, the next time he thought 



8 o Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


about his finger, the blood had ceased to flow. When 
Nellie, who was not quite as strong as she ought to 
have been, began to get a bit tired and peevish, Uncle 
Hezekiah suggested that he would like very much to 
find if she would fit on his right knee. Pretty soon 
she was having a happy ride, and pretty soon she was 
cuddled up in his big arms fast asleep. 

As the old man had this magnetism for the young, 
it was no wonder that he received the first of their 
enthusiasm. And they might have clung about him 
all the afternoon if he had not, with gentle strategy, 
turned their attention to some of the delights he had 
in mind for them. His wonderful whistle came out 
of his pocket, a whistle of silver made in the shape 
of a horse’s head. The eyes of every child were 
caught with its beauty and oddity. “Now, you all 
watch out,” he said, “an’ see me bring forth my 
magic hosses an’ their wonderful hostler.” He blew 
one tremendously long blast and almost instantly 
out of the barn came a beautiful white horse, with a 
blue blanket, and with a blue ribbon for a bridle. 
The children clapped their hands, and the steed was 
no less magical to them from the fact that everyone 
recognized it as one of the same horses that had 
drawn the party on their straw ride. Children can 
be trusted to imagine, to know that they are imagin¬ 
ing, and to enjoy the knowledge that they are 
imagining. The whistle sounded again and out came 



The Best of Good Parties 


81 


a black horse, with red blanket and ribbons. Then, 
answering to the magic summons, came another 
white horse and another black one. They were fine 
horses, fit to awaken the admiration of adults as 
well as children. “Now, where on airth is thet 
plaguey hostler! Let’s see if I kin blow him out!” 
Two short blasts and two long ones brought forth 
the marvellous Jehu, manifestly Rich Haskins, but 
Rich Haskins transformed and, for Primary eyes, 
glorified. On his head he wore a jockey cap of blue 
and red (for it must be remembered that Uncle He- 
zekiah had not always been a prisoner of the wheel¬ 
chair and that the Harbinger attic was wonderfully 
rich in treasures of all sorts) and about his waist 
he displayed a gorgeous sash to match. 

The children clapped their hands, but made no 
movement. “Let’s see,” said the host, “jest what is 
hosses made fur ?” “To ride, to ride!” they shouted, 
catching the hint at once. A grand rush they made 
for the “magic” horses and the resplendent groom. 
Everyone had a ride, “ladies and children first,” 
which meant that the boys had an early lesson in 
gallantry and that the question of priority was 
quickly settled according to age, the youngest com¬ 
ing first. Miss Freeman, Miss Chamberlain, Miss 
Monroe, and Miss Foster assisted, so that there were 
no broken bones and no danger of any. Everyone 
was happy — the children, their teachers, Uncle Hez- 



82 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


ekiah, Aunt Miranda, Rich Haskins, and, particu¬ 
larly, it appeared, the four horses, which seemed to 
enter into the full spirit of the occasion and to wish 
that there might be a party every day. 

The riding at an end, back came the rollicking, 
frolicking crew to the greensward by the old man’s 
chair. He told the teachers that he thought it best 
to let the children take care of themselves for a while, 
as they surely were well able to do. How they 
shouted! How they danced and pranced! How 
they topsy-turveyed down the bank! Then some 
went to see the live-stock and some went to pick 
buttercups, red clover and daisies. 

After a little while they drifted back inevitably to 
the maples and the center of attraction and Uncle 
Hezekiah knew that the time for some games had 
come. Molly Foster had quite a list, copied care¬ 
fully from a book, but strangely enough, she had no 
opportunity to use it. The children knew games of 
their own and quite insisted on playing them. The 
demand for novelty does not exist with little folks 
(to whom all the world is new) as it does with the 
elders, and they like to play over and over their 
favorite games just as they like to hear over and 
over their favorite stories. “Who knows a game to 
play, jest to show an old man how it’s done?” cried 
the host. Hands went up and were waved wildly, 
as though it were a joy-day at school. “I do!” “I 



The Best of Good Parties 


83 


do!” “I do!” “Play my game!” “Play 'The King, 
the Queen and the Little White Prince’!” “Please 
play ‘Spying the Big Gray Spider’!” “Oh, let’s play 
‘Going to See the Circus Come’!” The games were 
(highly successful, the children being twice as happy 
from the fact that their teachers and Uncle Hezekiah 
and Aunt Miranda were smiling with eager enjoy¬ 
ment or else laughing outright. 

There is a psychological moment to change the 
program at any party for children. If games are in 
progress, it comes after the participants are a little 
tired but before they have had quite enough of the 
fun. Uncle Hezekiah had the tact to know when 
there had been just sufficient games, and he suddenly 
took out his marvellous whistle and began to give a 
peculiar call. The children stopped and looked 
around to see if some additional horses were to be 
summoned for their amusement; but no animal 
appeared. When everyone was quiet, he said, “I 
jest thought I’d try an’ see ef I could call any chil- 
dern with this here whistle. I’ve got somethin’ thet 
I’d like to say to a few healthy boys an’ gals.” They 
were crowding about him in an instant. “What I 
want to say is thet I’m gittin’ most awful hungry 
an’ I b’lieve thet ef I could git my hands an’ face 
washed I’d look around fer a leetle somethin’ to 
eat.” A great yell went up from twenty-four Pri¬ 
mary throats, evidently expressing the unanimous 



84 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


sentiment of twenty-four good, healthy young 
stomachs. The washing was submitted to without a 
murmur by even the most thoroughly boyish boy, 
and, with shining faces, the guests assembled to show 
what first-class American appetites are like. 

There was plenty of food, daintily served, but 
there was nothing that would be likely to increase 
the practice of the Gainesbury physicians. “No, 
sirree,” Uncle Hezekiah used to say, “I don’t git 
them leetle chaps out here to make ’em sick; I wants 
to make ’em well instead.” 

On this occasion he said, “Boys an’ gals, did you 
ever hear tell ’bout a ‘land o’ milk an’ honey’ away 
off acrost the ocean? Wal, this is another jest sich 
place, an’ I don’t b’lieve them old Hebrew bees wuz 
any better’n my white clover hunters an’ I don’t 
b’lieve thet any o’ the cows in old Canaan could give 
richer milk’n my herd o’ Jarseys.” There was a 
great quantity of thick, yellow milk, a great quantity 
of that wonderful white bread for which Aunt Mi¬ 
randa had a county-wide reputation, and enough 
honey to satisfy but not to cloy. Then came the 
cake, sponge cake and angel cake and lady fingers; 
and just as it was being passed Rich Haskins ap¬ 
peared again, but coming from the woodshed and 
with a very different costume. This time he wore a 
white apron, reaching from his head to his feet, and 
a white cap, with a wide, square top. “Ice cream! 



The Best of Good Parties 


85 


Ice cream!” called the children, and clapped their 
hands. Rich brought one big freezer of vanilla 
cream and another of strawberry, cream such as can 
be made only where Jersey cows are kept. And 
when the children had finished there was not much 
left in either can. “The best supper ever,” would 
have been the verdict of every delighted young guest. 
And their mothers, spared the necessity of midnight 
medicine, would have been likely to say the same. 

Next came the story-telling, just naturally. No 
one could say which child first asked Uncle Hezekiah 
for a story. It seemed as though the idea had come 
to all minds at once and was voiced by all tongues at 
once. So Bob, heir of wealth and supposed good 
fortune, sat on the right knee, and Fannie, heir of 
poverty and supposed ill fortune, sat on the left 
knee, while all the others crowded around, eager for 
some position of vantage. The request for a story 
was only a beginning, for the tale was followed with 
the most sincere of encores, and the second with 
another and even the fifth with yet another. The 
old man was a natural story-teller, observing all the 
rules of effective narration. Of course, he had never 
studied those rules; it is doubtful, indeed, if he 
knew that there were any. But the legitimacy of 
any rule of story-telling is that it is followed by 
those like Uncle Hezekiah, who, without being 
taught, present their tales with vividness and power. 



86 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


Every story that afternoon had an appropriate open¬ 
ing, a body, a climax and a conclusion. A moral? 
Yes, every time, — but never stated. 

“Did you ever hear tell ’bout the leetle boy who 
went out to ketch the squirrels, the red squirrels, an’ 
the gray squirrels an’ their leetle chipmunk cousins ?” 
“Is it a true story?” asked little Philip. “Is it a true 
story ?” echoed a dozen others. Children always want 
to know. They are willing to use their imaginations 
and to walk with bears and talk with rose-bushes, 
but they always wish to know whether they are to 
adjust their minds to fact or fiction, and they de¬ 
serve to be told. “It’s a true story, an’ bimeby I’ll 
give you a chance to guess who the boy wuz an’ 
where he uster live. 

“This boy wuz five year old, jest ’bout ez big ez 
Fred Roberts over there, an’ he lived on a big, big 
farm.” “As big as this?” asked Mary Thornhill. 
“Yes, purty nigh ez big ez this. An’ he’d hearn the 
hired men talkin’ ’bout the chipmunks an’ squirrels 
an’ ez how they wuz gittin’ so thick they wuz a pest 
an’ ez how they guessed they’d hev to go out huntin’ 
an’ kill ’em off. So one day this leetle chap put on 
his big, heavy boots, with copper toes, an’ a great 
coat an’ a fur cap thet his father might hev worn, 
an’ he got a big club, thet weighed so much he stag¬ 
gered along when he carried it, an’ he went into the 
kitchin where his mother wuz to work, an’ he sez, 



The Best of Good Parties 


87 


sez he, ‘Ma, I’m goin’ up to the hick’ry grove fer a 
while.’ She laughed in her sleeve to see him fixed 
up in sich a funny rig, but she didn’t let on. She 
sez, 'What you goin’ to do up there, an’ what you 
carryin’ tlhet old club fur?’ He sez, sez he, ‘Ma, 
they’s too many squirrels on this place an’ I’m goin’ 
up to git a few. An’ p’r’aps we kin hev ’em cooked 
fer supper.’ ‘P’r’aps we kin,’ sez his ma. So off he 
trudged to the woods, sweatin’ purty well, with his 
big coat an’ big boots an’ big stick. When he got up 
to the grove, sure ’nuff he could hear the squirrels 
chatterin’ away up in the branches, most ez ef they 
wuz havin’ a party or a meetin’ o’ some kind. 
P’r’aps they wuz talkin’ in squirrel language ’bout 
him. I don’t know. Course they wuz all so high 
he couldn’t touch one on ’em, but he walked on an’ 
on, thinkin’ ez how he might ketch some o’ them 
runnin’ along the fence-tops. An’ then, what do you 
think? Right on the ground he found a squirrel, 
lyin’ there, pantin’ away an’ with its eyes most shet, 
shet ez ef it wuz goin’ to die. You see, some hunter 
had shot it an’ most killed it an’ gone off without 
gittin’ it. An’ it wuz an awful sick squirrel. The 
boy, he raised up his club an’ in a voice ez loud ez he 
could make it he sez, sez he, ‘Hey, there, what you 
doin’ here? We got too many squirrels on our farm.’ 
Then he wuz goin’ to strike, but somehow, when the 
stick wuz ’bout half way down, thet squirrel jest 



88 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


opened his leetle eyes a bit an’ the boy, why, he 
couldn't do it. Seemed ez though somethin’ had hold 
o’ his arm. What do you s’pose he said then? No¬ 
body here could guess. He said, ‘Pore leetle 
brother!’ Thet’s jest what he said. An’, do you 
know, thet boy he come to be a kind o’ brother to the 
squirrels an’ the chipmunks an’ all the other wild 
things on the farm. Wal, sir, he took off his big 
cap, an’, jest ez tender ez could be, he put thet squir¬ 
rel in it an’ he dropped his club an’ started fer the 
house pell mell, ez fast ez his boots w’ld let him 
travel. ‘Oh/ said his ma, 'you’ve got a squirrel. 
How did you git him?’ ‘Yes, but he ain’t fer sup¬ 
per. I’m goin’ to nuss him, Mother, an’ keep him fer 
my pet.’ An’ thet’s what he did.” 

“Did the squirrel get well?” asked Burt Hardy. 

“Ya-as, finally he did, an’ he wuz a kinder tame- 
wild squirrel, goin’ to the woods, but alius cornin’ 
back to the leetle boy. Now thet wuz the way the 
boy got the fust o’ the squirrels thet he went out fer 
with sich a big club. But, do you know, he got a 
good many others. I’ve hearn thet they’s some men 
thet love the wild animals an’ the animals seems to 
know it an’ never run ’way from ’em. Thet’s the 
way ’twas with this boy an’ the way ’twas when he 
got to be a grown man an’ an old man. I guess his 
way o’ gittin’ squirrels wuz the best after all.” 

“I know who that boy was!” suddenly cried Greg- 



The Best of Good Parties 


89 


ory Gordon. “ ’Twas yourself, Uncle Hezekiah, and 
it all happened right on this very farm.” “Yes, yes,” 
cried the others, “’twas Uncle Hezekiah himself!” 

“Wal, wal, wal!” exclaimed the old man in de¬ 
light. “What a bright set o’ youngsters we’ve got 
in Gainesbury! Wal, you’ve caught me, fust thing. 
Ya-as, I wuz the boy, an’ do you know, from thet 
day to this, I ain’t never had the heart to lift a club 
’gainst none o’ God’s critters!” 

As the load of weary, but happy, Primary folks 
were being carried down the road, Rich Haskins 
being once more the proud driver of the handsome 
horses, Uncle Hezekiah turned to his sister and said, 
“’Randy Ann, when you an’ the minister gits out 
thet leetle epitaph fer my stone, I guess you can’t do 
any better’n to say, ‘He loved leetle childern an’ 
leetle childern loved him.’ ” 

He opened his Bible. Waving his hand as his 
guests passed out of sight, he said, “Of sich is the 
kingdom o’ heaven.” And Miss Elizabeth Robbins, 
strangely enough, as she caught her final glimpse of 
the old couple on the lawn, was saying to herself, 
“Of such is the kingdom of heaven!” 



X 


A TASK FOR A STERNERGRAPHER 

Before an old-fashioned fire-place, an old-fash¬ 
ioned brother and sister entertained, in an old- 
fashioned manner, their strictly modern guests. The 
minister and his wife and the Sunday School super¬ 
intendent and his wife had accepted an invitation to 
“run out an’ spend an evenin’ with a grouchy old 
man an’ (his cranky old sister.’’ Into no stately man¬ 
sion would they have gone with lighter hearts or 
more buoyant steps than those with which they 
entered the old Harbinger farmhouse on the Bar¬ 
rington turnpike from Gainesbury. When their 
sleigh had first rounded the turn, they had been 
greeted with bright lights in all the windows up¬ 
stairs and down-stairs, every one apparently saying, 
“Welcome, honored guests, thrice welcome!’’ 

“Isn’t that just like Uncle Hezekiah!” exclaimed 
Doctor Fairlake. “Yes,” replied his wife, “and 
also just like Miranda Ann, who, you know, really 
had to carry the lamps.” 

Rich Haskins, proud and efficient hired man, was 
waiting with his lantern and would have no assist¬ 
ance in taking care of the horses. “Old friends o’ 


A Task for a Sternergrapher 


9 1 


mine, them chestnut colts,” he said. “I uster feed 
’em oats long afore Jim Goddard bought ’em fer his 
livery.” 

Their joyous hostess, with both hands extended, 
met them at the outer door. She hung their wraps 
in a good, warm place and then ushered them into 
the living-room, where Uncle Hezekiah, in his wheel¬ 
chair, was waiting with shining countenance. Such 
a room! Gladys Adams, an artist by nature, caught 
her breath, almost overwhelmed by the simple beauty 
and perfect fitness of everything. Open beams, 
braided rugs, old paintings and prints, geraniums 
and petunias in blossom, broad mantel, brass candle¬ 
sticks, and, exactly appropriate, the huge fireplace, 
piled high with blazing logs — all these made a per¬ 
fect environment for the old man and woman, with 
their gleaming white hair, their spotless garments 
and their faces radiant with happiness and good 
will. 

It was a pop-corn evening. Uncle Hezekiah 
shelled, but it was a foregone conclusion that Gladys 
would pop most of the corn. A city girl, she en¬ 
joyed to the full every new experience in the country 
district, where her husband was the “young squire,” 
and her girlish delight as the popper (which Uncle 
Hezekiah called “boardin’-house size”) filled with 
the exploding whiteness, was wholesome and good 
to see. 



92 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


“None o’ them new-fangled, gov’ment corns 
fer me,” exclaimed the host; “the leetle Tom 
Thumb pops better’n’ tastes better’n the hull 
caboodle.” 

With the well-buttered pop-corn came apples, 
northern spies, seek-no-furthers and pound sweets. 
And, “to wash it down,” Miranda Ann offered a 
choice of buttermilk, sweet cider and raspberry 
shrub. No feast ever was enjoyed with heartier 
relish and no “postprandial exercises” ever sur¬ 
passed the evening conversation in jollity and kindly 
wit. The old man proved that his humor was not 
altogether of the quaint and quiet variety, but that 
on occasion he could rouse the hearty laugh and 
liked well to join in it. And he had the power to 
make the pastor voice his brightest ideas in his best 
way and to put each visitor at perfect ease and in the 
finest humor. 

At last he said, “Gladys, do you know, I wanter 
hire you. I hearn thet after you left college you wuz 
one o’ them sternergraphers fer a while. Now kin 
you really write down things thet folks sez ez fast’s 
they talk ’em ?” 

“Perhaps I can, if they aren’t too much like Phil¬ 
lips Brooks. I like to help Francis by taking some 
of his letters for him.” 

“Now ain’t thet clever! Takes me ten minutes 
jest to sign my name an’ then only a purty good 



A Task for a Sternergrapher 


93 


guesser kin make it out. Now, Gladys, what would 
you charge to write a letter fer me ?” 

“Charge? Not a cent, Uncle; why, it would be 
the greatest fun in the world!” 

“Let’s make a bargain, then. I ain’t got much 
silver or gold, you know, but I hev got lots o’ old 
truck litterin’ ’round here. There’s them two candle¬ 
sticks over there on the cupboard — a hunderd year 
old, an’ so, I s’pose, o’ no great use to nobody. Ef 
you’ll write me a good letter, jest ez I tells you, I’ll 
pay you in thet there old brass.” 

The girl had too good sense to resist the old man’s 
generosity; so she entered into the spirit of the “bar¬ 
gain,” her eyes showing the delight that her lips 
could not utter. To possess such candlesticks, tall, 
heavy, dignified, graceful, and made sacred by a 
century of use, was beyond anything of which she 
had dreamed. Had it not been for a lurking fear 
that the minister and his wife, in spite of themselves, 
would break the Tenth Commandment, her joy 
would have been full. 

“O Uncle Hezekiah, what a long letter it will be 
for such a price, — I am sure quite the longest ever 
written!” With improvised note-book, she seated 
herself at the little stand brought by the hostess and 
prepared to take Uncle Hezekiah’s first dictation. 

“To Mr. Francis Adams, Esquire,” the old man 
began, “an’ be sure you make thet 'squire’ good’n’ 



94 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


plain, ’cause it’ll tickle him to see thet we know he’s 
a lawyer chap.” 

“Why, you’re not going to write to Francis, are 
you, when he’s right here in the room! What a 
queer idea! Why don’t you write to someone you 
have no chance to talk with?” 

“Oh, thet’s the kind o’ sternergrapher you be, is it? 
Tellin’ me fust thing who I kin write to an’ who I 
can’t. I knowed you didn’t like them candlesticks.” 

While the others laughed at the old man’s whim, 
Gladys apologized and made ready for more respect¬ 
ful service. 

“Dear Francis — Jest write thet ‘Dear’ so’s he’ll 
know I mean somethin’ by it — prob’ly you know 
how. I sartin do think a heap o’ thet young feller 
an’ the more I know him the more I love him. Ain’t 
thet the way ’tis with you, Gladys? Dear Francis — 
You’re a good sort an’ I want you to know thet I’m 
glad to see you gittin’ on in life. I guess with your 
law an’ your wife an’ your religion, you’re a purty 
happy chap. Special I want to shake hands with 
you ’bout thet Sunday School thet you superintend. 
You’re doin’ a good job. You’re helpin’ to give 
them gals an’ boys somethin’ better’n any money kin 
buy, somethin’ thet’ll give ’em joy an’ help jest ez 
long’s they live. You’re makin’ Gainesbury a better 
place to live in now an’ it’s alius goin’ to be better 
’cause o’ what you’re doin’. It’s great, Francis. An’ 



A Task for a Sternergrapher 


95 


I jest want you to know that an old codger ’way off 
here in his wheel-chair, notices an’ thanks you an’ 
’gratulates you.” 

Uncle Hezekiah’s face was tense and he paid not 
the slightest attention to any of the listeners, though 
Francis, particularly, was deeply affected. 

“Now thet’s jest the beginning jest the leadin’ up 
to git him in the frame o’ mind. Now go on. 

“ ’Tain’t jest words I wanter give you ’bout thet 
Sunday School, though they might help ’long. I’d 
like to show you thet I really b’lieve in you an’ want 
to help you. Enclosed please find (ain’t thet busi- 
nessified?) enclosed please find a hunderd dollars to 
spend on things you need to work with in thet 
school.” 

“There,” exclaimed his sister, feigning disgust, 
“I jest knowed thet money’d burn in his pocket!” 

“Now see here, ’Randy Ann,” said Uncle He- 
zekiah, “I don’t want you to interrupt when I’m 
workin’ with hired help. ’Tain’t good policy.” 

Then he continued his dictation. “This here 
money come to me most onexpected. Feller’s owed 
it to me fer fifteen year — hull thing’d outlawed long 
ago. An’ what’d he do t’other day but druv up here 
as happy ez a clam an’ sez, sez he, ‘Mr. Harbinger,’ 
sez he, ‘here’s the money you lent me t’other day an’ 
a leetle interest besides!’ an’ over he passed a hun¬ 
derd dollars in all. You could a-knocked me down 



96 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


with a feather; but I didn’t let on thet I wuz s’prised; 
no, sirree. Wal, it done me good and it done him 
good, him specially. 

“Then I thunk a good deal ’bout how the Lord 
wanted me to invest thet money he’d sent me so sud- 
din. Seed? Like ez not. Young stock! Like ez 
not. The gospil? I asked him an’ the idee come 
clear ez sunlight thet he wanted me to spend it fer 
the kind o’ seed you’re sowin’ down in your Sunday 
School an fer the kind o’ young stock you’re raisin’ 
down there. 

“So, Francis Adams, Esquire, dear sir, you’ve got 
a hunderd dollars to buy things with. Did you know 
you needed it? You’ll excuse an old feller fer sayin’ 
it, but I’ve jest ’spicioned thet you hev ben a leetle 
too contented with the things thet you found when 
you took over thet school. Now, you’ve got to keep 
out o’ the ruts. You’ve got to keep idees fresh an’ 
you’ve got to hev new tools to work with. Why, 
they’s farmers in this town pluggin’ ’long with the 
same old, worn-out an’ out-o’-date plows an’ mowin’- 
machines thet their fathers had afore ’em. But they 
ain’t much farmers. No, sirree. The fellers thet git 
on air the ones with their eyes open fer new methods 
an’ better machinery. An’ it must be jest the same 
in a Sunday School. Course I don’t know jest what 
you need; but I’m purty sartain thet you need some¬ 
thin . P’r’aps you oughter hev maps, or a magic 



A Task for a Sternergrapher 


97 


lantern (I can’t think o’ your new-fangled name fer 
it), or blackboards or what not. You kin think a 
good deal better’n I kin. 

“I s’pose there’s consarns gittin’ out stuff fer Sun¬ 
day School work the hull time, some good an’ some 
prob’ly jest fol-de-rol. You oughter hev all their 
catalogues, so’s you could know what’s on the mar¬ 
ket. An’ you oughter go to conventions an’ hear 
the big-bugs talk an’ larn from them what to buy. 
An’ find out what other schools is usin’. 

“Seems to me the need fer somethin’ new’s even 
greater in the Sunday School than ’tis on the farm. 
’Cause down there you’ve got all them wide-awake 
boys an’ gals to keep interested an’ you can’t do it 
with the same old things month arter month. Hev 
somethin’ new jest fer the sake o’ hevin’ somethin’ 
new, even ef you don’t need it special. It’ll help to 
keep their eyes open. It’ll keep ’em cornin’ to see 
what next you’ll hev to show. 

“Now, Francis, you’ve got a hunderd dollars. 
P’r’aps thet looked big to you when I fust men¬ 
tioned it. It’ll look smaller an’ smaller, the more 
you think things over. I’ll bet you’re feelin’ pore 
this minute an’ wishin’ some other debtor’d brush 
up his mem’ry an’ call on Uncle Hezekiah. Course 
you’ll hev to hev more money. But you don’t want 
one man to give it all. Let some others hev some o’ 
the joy. Deacon Hardin’ — he’ll give you a hun- 



98 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


derd. Miss Simpson — she’ll give anythin’ you ask 
her. You kin git money enough. You’ll give some¬ 
thin’ yourself, o’ course — you’re gittin’ ’long purty 
well an’ I s’pose you an’ Gladys air tithers afore this. 
What you need is jest to git out o’ folks’ craniums 
the idee that Sunday Schools kin be run with the 
childern’s pennies an’ nickels an’ dimes. Eddicatin’ 
them young folks to be good citizens and good Chris¬ 
tians is the most important work o’ the hull church. 
Course we’ve got to pay fer it. 

“Yours respectively — had I better say ‘respec¬ 
tively’ ? Course I do respect him, but I do a good 
deal more’n thet. Can’t say ‘Yours lovin’ly’ —thet’s 
too gallified. Guess I’ll say ‘Sincerely.’ Thet’s ’bout 
ez good a word ez they is. Ef I sign thet, he’ll know 
he kin depend on me. Y-a-as, put thet down : ‘Yours 
sincerely,’ Hezekiah Harbinger.” 

The old man threw back his head and took a long 
breath; then, with his large, red handkerchief, he 
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. And all 
the listeners, amused by his quaint letter and, at the 
same time, deeply touched drew long breaths also. 

“Well, Uncle Hezekiah,” said Francis, “when do 
you want me to answer this letter, now or — ?” 

“Not till you git it; not till you git it all signed an’ 
sealed an’ with the hunderd dollars.” 

“Well, you know Uncle, that I” — 



A Task for a Sternergrapher 


99 


“Ya-as, ya-as, I know. Now eat some more corn, 
everybody. Hev some more shrub.” 

When the guests were preparing to go, Gladys re¬ 
ceived, with joy and pride, her beautiful candle¬ 
sticks. 

“Ain’t you got nothin’ to carry?” asked Uncle 
Hezekiah of Mrs. Fairlake. “Seems to me you 
oughter hev a leetle bundle too.” 

Miranda Ann, evidently knowing the plan, 
opened a cupboard and brought out two other candle¬ 
sticks almost like the first. “There,” said the old 
man, “I’m goin’ to be a leetle better to you than I 
wuz to Gladys. She had to earn hers. But I’m 
goin’ to give you these two, jest ’cause you’re a 
minister’s wife an’ fust-class.” 

The good woman, who away down in her heart 
had been fighting a little envy demon, looked up with 
delight. Feigning protest, she said, “Aunt Miranda 
Ann, are you going to allow that brother of yours to 
give away all his most precious possessions?” 

“’Low?” exclaimed the old lady. “Me ’low? 
Why, he’d give away his head ef he took a notion!” 

As they were passing out, Uncle Hezekiah held 
the young lawyer’s hand a moment and said, “They’s 
a tex’ of Saint Paul thet you might think on once in a 
while when you’re considerin’ your Sunday School 
an’ its fixin’s an’ furnishin’s. Jest take time to read 
a couple o’ verses from Philippians to me.” 


9 > > 



IOO Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


So the lawyer read, “Forgetting the things 
which are behind, and stretching forward to the 
things which are before, I press on toward the goal 
unto the prize of the high calling of God in Christ 
Jesus.’’ “Remember them words every Sunday,’’ 
said the old man. “Don’t be content with the old 
ihings an’ old plans an’ old idees. Git the spirit o’ 
progress. An’ press forward.” 



XI 


SHOWIN’ RESPECK FER 
SETH THOMAS 

“Now, Uncle Hezekiah, exactly what is the trou¬ 
ble with our Gainesbury Sunday School?” The 
superintendent spoke eagerly, almost desperately, 
and any respectable heart would have been touched. 
“Yes, we want you to be entirely frank and not to 
spare our feelings in so far as we are to blame.” 
The minister also was thoroughly in earnest. 

“What, me tell you, me, an old codger thet ain’t 
seed the inside o’ the church sence most o’ them chil- 
dern wuz born?” Uncle Hezekiah settled back in 
his wheel-chair and waved his hand as though the 
suggestion were too absurd to be considered. But 
his faint, quizzical smile showed he understood that 
they knew he expected them to press him for his 
philosophy. 

“Tell us,” insisted Superintendent Adams. 
“While you may not attend our services, you do 
seem to keep pretty well posted about all that goes 
on in the church; and my opinion is that you under¬ 
stand us people down there a good deal better than 
we understand ourselves. Something is lacking in 


102 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


our school and we certainly do want your 
advice.” 

“Wal, then, ef you will hev it, my idee is thet you 
good folks ought ter larn ter show a leetle more 
respeck fer Mister Seth Thomas.” 

It was Indian summer. The three men were 
seated on the west porch of the Harbinger home¬ 
stead, watching the great ball of fire that descended 
toward the hill-tops. The blue haze over all gave a 
sense of ineffable beauty and peace. The wind was 
gentle but was sufficient to dislodge the few ‘last 
leaves” and to send them scurrying across the mea¬ 
dows. The indomitable sparrows and the crows, dis¬ 
cussing in raucous cries their plans for a winter in 
the north, were the only birds. The air was warm 
enough for comfort, yet cool enough for vigor. 

The minister and the superintendent had walked 
out over the rolling turnpike to the home of Hez- 
ekiah Harbinger, and, a little weary from the un¬ 
usual exercise, were enjoying to the full the rest 
in the November sunshine. They had come, how¬ 
ever, on a specific errand, preceding the other guests 
at Uncle Hezekiah’s husking-bee, and they had no 
intention of missing this opportunity to share in the 
old man’s wisdom. 

Uncle Hezekiah looked thoughtfully across the 
valley, whistled softly, and then straightened up with 
twinkling eyes. “Ya-as, thet’s jest it,” he said, “You 



Showiri Respeck fer Seth Thomas 103 


sure ought ter show old Mister Thomas a leetle more 
consideration.” 

“Seth Thomas? Just who is he, Uncle?” asked 
the minister. 

“What, you don’t know Seth Thomas? Nor you, 
nuther? Wal, jest take a look inside my old clock! 
Look inside the clock in any veteran house in Gaines- 
bury! Seth Thomas, he made ’em all! Good clocks 
too — none o’ them cheap, loud-strikin’, run-away- 
an-git-tired affairs sich ez they sells these days! 
What I want to say is thet I guess you ought to 
remember a leetle better thet fifty-nine minutes an’ 
sixty seconds makes an hour. You want to know 
what you’re lackin’. ’Tain’t money; ’tain’t a good 
buildin’; ’tain’t books; ’tain’t scholars; ’tain’t teach¬ 
ers. It’s speerit. That’s what I gather from what 
folks says to me. They sez you don’t begin on time 
an’ you don’t end on time an’ you don’t make folks 
come on time. I guess you’ve got into a kinder easy- 
goin’ way — an’ an easy-goin’ way is a down-hill 
way every time. Ef I wuz a parson, I’d preach a 
sarmon some week on ‘The Shame o’ Shiftlessness!’ 
’Tis a shame, wherever you find it; for I know thet 
the heavenly Father intended us to be wide-awake 
an’ up-to-the-scratch. 

“Course I don’t mean to say thet you’re ez shift¬ 
less ez some; ef you wuz you wouldn’t be here askin’ 
advice. But I guess p’raps you do need a leetle 



104 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


ginger-pop. Now jest how wuz it last Sunday — 
did you begin your school when you advertised you 
would?” 

“Well, no, not exactly,” said the superintendent, 
“you see, the pianist was late and—” 

“Oho! So she’s caught it too, has she? She’s 
larned thet you’ll let her be late. Thet ain’t very 
kind to her, Francis. P’raps sometime she’ll work 
fer some old curmudgeon thet’ll think thet a bar¬ 
gain’s a bargain an’ thet he ought to hev the hours 
thet he pays for. How is it at the facto’ry over in 
Harborough? I hear the whistle blow when the 
wind’s right. I s’pose thet means thet the power’s 
to start an’ everybody’s ’spected to start at the same 
moment. In your own office them clerks don’t come 
driftin’ in five minutes behind hand, or ten or fif¬ 
teen, does they? Not ef you hev the business speerit 
in your business. Me an’ Rich Haskins gits along 
fust-rate. I guess he never thinks he’s abused much. 
But he knows jest the same thet when I pays him 
fer an hour’s work, I looks to him for sixty minutes 
o’ sarvice. He likes it thet way. He respecks his- 
self an’ he respecks me an’ he knows thet I respecks 
him.” 

“You are right, Uncle Hezekiah,” said the minis¬ 
ter, “I thoroughly agree with you.” 

“Wal, take this p’int o’ beginnin’ the Sunday 
School sarvice. S’pose you let things kinder drift 



Showin } Respeck fer Seth Thomas 105 


an’ you open up, not at twelve o’clock, but when 
Miss Ordway gits ready to play the pianer an’ Mrs. 
Babson gits her boys into their seats an’ Deacon 
Whipple gits through tellin’ stories to Tim Love¬ 
lace. Is thet what you’ve advertised? You don’t 
say ‘Sunday School will begin at twelve o’clock or 
whenever it’s convenient.’ You say f twelve o’clock ’ 
an’ you’re mighty wrought up ef them young uns is 
a few minutes late. Now, you make a bargain with 
’em when you tell ’em to come at noon, an’ you’d 
better set an example o’ honesty an’ keep thet bar¬ 
gain. Ef you don’t what air they goin’ to think 
o’ you? 

“Then, ef you begin ten minutes late what a lot 
o’ time you’ve wasted! How many members? — 
about a hunderd an’ fifty? Ten times a hunderd an’ 
fifty makes fifteen hunderd minutes. How many 
hours’ thet? Twenty-five. Huh! I thought so. 
Now, time is money, they say. It’s more than 
money. You kin git more money; but there ain’t no 
genius never lived who could git more time. 

“Ef you begin late, somethin’s crowded out. 
Some big opportunity’s crowded out thet’s never 
goin’ to come agin. P’raps part o’ your openin’ sar- 
vice’s crowded out. Thet’s too bad. You know thet 
all the religion some o’ them leetle chaps gits is in 
the Sunday School —none to hum, none to day 
school, none nowheres else. Or p’r’aps it’s part o’ 



lob Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


your lesson time thet you steal. ‘Steal’ may be a 
harsh word; but you know you’ve made a bargain 
with them teachers, too. You’ve said to them, ‘Here, 
you kin hev these young uns thirty-five minutes a 
Sunday an’ in them thirty-five minutes you’ve got 
to give ’em the truth thet’ll make ’em free, the truth 
about the Bible an' their heavenly Father an’ their 
duty to their feller-men. Now ’tain’t fair to cut 
them thirty-five down to thirty or twenty-five or 
what-not. ‘Tain’t givin’ your teachers a chance. 
It’s sartain there’s leetle ’nuff time anyhow for jest 
about the biggest job in the hull world. 

“They wuz a teacher onct who hed jest got a big 
boy where he wuz goin’ to swing him into sure-nuff 
manhood. He hed a lesson up his sleeve, most 
a-purpose fer thet chap. He wanted to give him a 
good hint ’bout keepin’ honest an’ how to do it. But 
things wuz slow thet day an’ they wuzn’t time to 
more’n half give thet good lesson. An’ thet boy—* 
wal, the next Sunday wuz too late. What’s thet 
pome thet you spoke to me oncet, Parson? ‘The 
mill will never grind with the water thet is past.’ 
You remember. Thet’s a wise poem. Nobody’s got 
no right to cheat the teacher out o’ an opportunity 
thet maybe’ll never come again. 

“Then, I guess we ought to think jest what im¬ 
pression the boys an’ gals will git o’ the school ef we 
don’t care enough about it to begin on time. I guess 



Showin’ Respeck fer Seth Thomas 107 


they will think thet it’s a no-count affair in our 
minds an’ they needn’t pay much attention to it un¬ 
less they wants to. Oh, they’s quick to ketch the 
speerit, an’ they’s quick to ketch the lack o’ speerit, 
too. They’s some superintendents thet I’ve hearn 
tell o’ thet makes most o’ their preperations after it’s 
time for the session to begin — picks out their hymns 
an’ their readin’ sarvices an’ so on. An’ then they 
wonders an’ complains ’cause the childern ain’t 
prompt an’ interested. Why, interest’s catchin’! Ef 
the officers hev it, the scholars hev it, don’t you 
fear.” I 

“It’s pretty hard for me to begin my school on 
time, Uncle Hezekiah, because the older people of 
the church want to wait and visit a while.” 

“Huh! An’ spile the Sunday School! P’raps 
you ought to ’low a leetle time for their visitin’ 
an’ set your school hour ten minutes later. But 
when the time to begin comes round, I tell you 
begin. 

“There’s a word for the parson, too. Course it 
don’t hit this minister, ’cause he’s a man o’ thought 
an’ honor, but he kin pass it on to some o’ his breth¬ 
ren who do need it. A leetle bird told me thet some 
preachers kept right on with their sarmons right up 
to the Sunday School hour an’ past the Sunday 
School hour, jest ez if their own purticular meetin’ 
wuz the only one o’ any importance. Them minis- 



io8 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


ters need convartin 3 . They need to larn ’bout 
courtesy an’ honesty to their feller-workers.” 

The minister arose and walked up and down the 
porch, red in the face and with some symptoms of 
anger. Presently, however, he returned and grasped 
the old man’s hand. “That’s right,” he said. “We 
told you to be frank. I’ve been a sinner. If I ever 
trespass again on the time of Brother Adams, I’ll be 
a miserable sinner, for I’ll always remember what 
you’ve said.” 

“They’s somethin’ more to be said ’bout bein’ fair 
to the teachers. The openin’ sarvices mustn’t be so 
long thet the lesson’s crowded out. What is it thet 
you say? — the sense of proportion — thet’s what 
we hev to keep in this world. You see thet buildin’ 
across on thet hill? Si Goddard calls it his house. 
To me it looks like a piazzer an’ an annex. He’s got 
so much entry thet he ain’t got much room left for 
his house. Some sarvices is like thet — most all in¬ 
troduction. The Widow Bennett used to hev a hired 
man thet took so much time oilin’ the harness, an’ 
cleaning the hoss, and greasin’ the wheels whenever 
she wanted to go ridin’ thet there never wasn’t time 
left to drive more’n half a mile. Some Sunday 
School superintendents must be relations o’ hisn.” 

“I see another point,” said Francis Adams. “I’m 
afraid that I’ve been in the habit of interrupting the 
teachers during their class periods. They’ve scowled 



Showin’ Respeck fer Seth Thomas 109 


at me some, but I’ve thought that I must step in and 
sa y good-morning and see how they were getting 
along.” 

“Scowled at you, hev they? They ought to hev 
shot at you. The teacher’s time with his class is 
hisn; it’s sacred. He’s got a hard job to do. He’s 
got to hev a chance to hev all his own attention an’ 
all the attention o’ his class for thet lesson he’s tryin’ 
to persent. You ain’t got no right to interfere nor 
to hev no book collectors nor card collectors nor 
money collectors interfere. Plan things different. 

“An’ then when the time comes to close, be sartin 
to close. Thet’s another bargain. You owe some¬ 
thin’ to the stummicks o’ them growin’ boys an’ gals. 
Ef you want scholars next Sunday, be honest with 
them stummicks. Send the folks all home with the 
idee thet thet Sunday School is a business enterprise, 
thet they’s some git-up-and-git to it, some git-up 
when it’s time to commence an’ some git when it’s 
time to go hum.” 

The sun had disappeared behind the hills, leaving 
only a few radiant clouds as trailing garments be¬ 
hind. The birds had gone to rest. The air had 
grown sharp and chill. The clock struck five. 

“There’s Seth Thomas now,” exclaimed the super¬ 
intendent. 

“Yes, an’ there, jest drivin’ out o’ the barn, is 
Rich Haskins. I told him thet he’d better start at 



no Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


five for them corn-huskers. I s’pose ’Randy Ann 
wants to feed ’em a leetle somethin’ before they 
starts to work.” 

The fragrance of warm biscuits came from the 
kitchen. “Prob’ly she’s gittin’ a bite extra for you 
dignitaries; she said she’d be ready for us at a quar¬ 
ter past five an’ she’s jest as much o’ a time crank ez 
her brother.” 

When the four were seated at the table, well-laden 
with ’Randy Ann’s dainty cookery, Uncle Hezekiah 
said, “Forgive an old man, brethren, ef he seems a 
leetle too peppery an’ sot when you ask his advice. 
I alius thinks thet folks hed better not ask unless they 
wants the truth ez fer ez I kin give it. An’ you know 
when a man feels thet he ain’t got so very long to 
stay an’ enjy an’ do things on this side, he kinder 
takes time purty serious.” 

When the minister, at Uncle Hezekiah’s request, 
had returned thanks to the all-bountiful Father, the 
old man added a petition of his own: “So teach us 
to number our days, an’ our hours, an’ our minutes, 
thet we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” And 
very heartily his visitors said, “Amen, amen.” 



XII 

THE BOOK AND THE BOOKS 

“Sometimes I reads the books an’ sometimes I 
reads the Book; an’ when I studies the books, I larn 
to understand the Book; an’ when I studies the 
Book, I larn to understand the books.” 

Uncle Hezekiah looked at the minister and the 
superintendent and the supervisor, giving each in 
turn a special smile of intimate fellowship and good¬ 
will. The wheel-chair had been rolled out under 
the old grape arbor, high, wide and cool, a favorite 
spot of the venerable saint, and he and his guests 
were enjoying the vigorous breeze that made endur¬ 
able an afternoon in mid-July. A suggestion of 
peace came from the constant trickle of the tiny 
stream escaping from an icy spring on the hillside; a 
suggestion of life came from the noisy chantey of 
the mowing machine, triumphal chariot of Rich 
Haskins, the ruthless lord of the meadows. The air 
was sweet with the fragrance of wild berries and 
new-mown hay. 

Uncle Hezekiah had sent for the three, saying 
that he wanted their advice on a subject in which he 


i\2 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


was much interested, and they had walked out to the 
Harbinger farm, knowing well that they would re¬ 
ceive much more wisdom than they would give. On 
the way out they talked of this most extraordinary 
partner, congratulating themselves on his friendship, 
counsel and support. 

“What do you make of Hezekiah Harbinger any¬ 
how?” asked Francis Adams, lawyer and superin¬ 
tendent of the Sunday School. “We’re used to him 
and take him almost as a matter of course in our 
community life; but I wonder just what a discerning 
stranger would think about him.” 

“He’s a prophet,” said the minister. “He’s a 
poet,” said the supervisor. “He’s a philosopher,” 
said the superintendent. “Do you know,” the young 
man continued, “he looks to me like a combination 
of Walt Whitman and William Cullen Bryant.” 
“Add St. Peter and St. Paul,” said the minister. 
“Add Victor Hugo and John Burroughs,” said the 
supervisor. “And,” exclaimed Francis, “every child 
in Gainesbury would say, ‘Add St. Nicholas!’ ” 

‘He’s the best optimist I have ever known,” said 
Dr. Fairlake, “never failing in hope but at the same 
time never content with wrong and never weary in 
well-doing.” 

The long walk over the dusty road was soon for¬ 
gotten when Miranda Ann, cool and comfortable in 
her gown of pure white, had given them welcome and 



The Book and the Books 


113 


Uncle Hezekiah had made them feel at home under 
the heavy green leaves. 

“You boys would like some water, wouldn’t you? 
Thet spring’s ben bubblin’ ever sence I wuz a leetle 
shaver an’ I guess it’ll yield enough fer even sich 
parched throats ez yourn. They’s some glasses ef 
you want ’em, but ef I wuz ez lively ez you be I’d 
hand-an’-knee it down to thet spigot.” And from 
the old wooden spout the visitors drank the coolest, 
wettest and most delicious water they ever had 
tasted. 

“Water!” exclaimed the old man. “Water!” 
P’raps it’s about water that I want to git some 
opinions — the water o’ life we reads about in this 
old Book.” He took up his Bible. “Purty delapi- 
dated, ain’t it ? Don’t look respectable. I sure can’t 
read thet book much longer. What do you think, 
Parson, hed I better buy another Bible or git some 
other book thet’s more up-to-date?” 

“Why, Uncle Hezekiah, I’d as much expect to see 
you without your head as without your Bible!” 

“Wal, ef I’ve got to git a new one I wonder, Par¬ 
son, ef you’d be willin’ to send off an’ git such a one 
ez I ought to hev. Thank you kindly, thank you. 
Good, plain print an’ common-sense bindin’ sich ez a 
man kin enjy at seventy-seven. 

“An’ now thet makes me think o’ somethin’. 
Here’s three wise men, an’ one old codger needin’ 



114 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


advice. I got you to come out through all thet dust 
to ask your opinion about an idee thet’s ben floatin’ 
round inside my cranium fer a week or more. I 
want to do somethin’ fer thet Sunday School o’ 
yourn an’ I think I’d like to give a Bible to ev’ry 
scholar ye’ve got. Some I s’pose hev got ’em 
already; but never mind; I’d like to give one to 
ev’rybody, old an’ young, scholars an’ teachers. 
What do you think, brothers? Do you s’pose you 
could do better work an’ git more int’rest ef ev’ry- 
one hed a copy o’ the good Book ?” 

There was no division of opinion and no lack of 
emphasis. 

“Wal, what kind o’ Bible hed I ought to buy? 
Somethin’ cheap an’ flimsy or somethin’ purty good 
thet they’ll all be proud to own? I’ve hearn thet 
there are some Sunday Schools thet give Bibles to 
their kiddies an’ tries to be ecernomical about it an’ 
gives ’em ’bout the humblest an’ shoddiest books 
they kin buy. Now I hope you won’t advise me thet 
way. Ef you’re willin’, I’ll give ’em somethin’ thet 
they’ll prize an’ take keer on, somethin’ thet’ll sug¬ 
gest thet what’s inside is a precious treasure. I 
guess it’ll be a good investment. An’ then, Francis, 
you’re a lawyer man, an’ you know how to fix up a 
paper so thet ev’ry year, while I’m here an’ arter 
I’m gone, ther’ll be one o’ them books fer ev’ry new 
scholar thet comes into thet school an’ fer ev’ry leetle 



The Book and the Books 


feller thet larns how to read. Jest hev a leetle cere¬ 
mony o’ some kind each year, so’s to make ’em take 
notice an’ give each one a Bible with the best wishes 
o’ old Uncle Hezekiah.” 

The minister arose and took the old man’s hand. 
“I didn’t expect any such thing as this, Mr. Harbin¬ 
ger, and yet it’s like you. I want you to know that 
you are giving to the Gainesbury school something 
besides money, something besides even the Bible.” 
The other men grasped the hand. “We’ll try to de¬ 
serve this,” said the supervisor. “We’ll try to be 
true to what those books will teach us,” promised the 
superintendent. 

“Set down, set down,” said Uncle Hezekiah. “I 
don’t want no thanks. I know thet this is one o’ 
them cases in which it’s far more blessed to give than 
to receive. An’ now, brothers, how would it do fer 
us to hev a leetle chat ’bout them lessons down at 
the school? I heard thet you wuz thinkin’ ’bout 
changin’ your courses some.” 

“Well, yes,” said Francis. ’’You see, we took 
your advice and appointed a new supervisor to have 
charge of our curriculum and Professor Fairbairn 
is doing some serious thinking about it.” 

“Wal, I guess I hain’t never seed a curry-curry- 
what-you-call-it, but whatever ’tis it ought to be safe 
with a man like the Purfessor. But what you goin’ 



lib Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


ter larn them kiddies? — thet’s what I wants to 
know.” 

“Perhaps we’ll broaden out a little,” said Profes¬ 
sor Fairbairn, “There’s a tendency that way in our 
up-to-date schools.” 

“You mean to broaden out into the Bible or away 
from the Bible?” 

“Of course we wouldn’t think of giving up our 
biblical work, but we know that there are many 
sources of truth. Perhaps we will make our curri¬ 
culum somewhat more inclusive, trying to give our 
children a general culture. It may be that some 
classic literature and some nature study will be 
helpful.” 

“I see, I see,” said Uncle Hezekiah, stroking his 
beard and narrowing his eyes. “P’raps you’re right, 
p'raps you are. They’s many books in this world, 
many good books. I likes to read ’em. They’s 
books thet’s printed on paper an’ they’s other books 
thet’s more beautiful an’ more important. I’m alius 
readin’ books, brothers, even when I can’t find my 
spectacles. Why, thet sky to me is a book, an’ thet 
hummin’ bird flirtin’ round here’s a book. So’s thet 
grass, so’s thet squirmin’ caterpiller, so’s ev’ry boy 
thet races down the road, so’s ’Randy Ann. You’re 
books, too, ev’ry one o’ you — an’ mighty interestin’ 
ones. Say, our Father in heaven’s a great Author 
an’ a great Publisher, ain’t he?” 



The Book and the Books 117 

“Uncle Hezekiah,” said Francis, “Gladys found a 
fine passage in Jean Ingelow: ‘God taught me to 
read; he gave me the world for a book’!” 

“Wal, I never hearn thet before, but I’ll alius 
know it arter this. Fine! Thet’s jest so. Yes, sir; 
I likes to read Scott an’ Dickens, an’ some Shakes¬ 
peare, too; an’ I likes to read them posies an’ them 
hills over there an’ them fine cows. And yit, when’s 
all’s said an’ done, they’s many good books, but 
they’s one best Book. Sometimes I reads the books 
an’ sometimes I reads the Book; an’ when I studies 
the books, I larn to understand the Book; and when 
I studies the Book, I larn to understand the books.’’ 

“And would you advise us, then, to follow the ex¬ 
ample of the schools that are introducing some non- 
biblical material ?” asked the supervisor. “I confess 
that I have not yet formed a very definite opinion on 
the subject.” 

“Wal, I’d advise you to keep your sense of pur- 
portion. You want them boys an’ gals to grow up 
well-balanced, not lop-sided. “T’other day the 
Ledger hed some funny picters, some o’ men with 
heads twice too large fer their bodies an’ some with 
bodies twice too big fer their heads. One thing thet 
makes me so proud o’ thet span on the mowin’ ma¬ 
chine is thet they’s shaped jest about ez Nature 
meant hosses to be. Now you want the future men 
an’ women o’ Gainesbury to be right-shaped in their 



11S Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


minds an’ speerits, jest enough edication from the 
Bible and jest enough from outside.” 

“That’s commonsense,” agreed his visitors. 

“Wal, take the world jest ez it is to-day, is there 
much likelihood thet a young chap’ll git too much 
Bible? Is there much chance thet he’ll git a fair 
purportion on it, even ef you give it to him in the 
Sunday School fifty-two weeks in the year? Where 
else will he git much on it in these days? In the 
hum? In the day school? In the books thet he 
reads or the plays thet he sees? No, sirree! P’raps 
ef you should hev a leetle examination o’ some o’ 
your young folks, you could find out whether they 
wuz gitting too much Bible or not. Why, there wuz 
a man here t’other night, an officer o’ this town, an’ 
do you know, he thought thet David was one o’ the 
Twelve Apostles! 

“You’re right in sayin’ thet a boy ought to know 
’bout the great literchure o’ the world — an’ they 
larn him thet in school. You’re right ’bout his 
needin’ to know the facks ’bout the world he’s livin’ 
in — an’ they larn him thet. But unless you give 
him the Bible in the Sunday School, he ain’t goin’ to 
git it nowhere. Course, you’ll hev other subjects in 
your school — ’cause the Bible touches ev’ry subject 
under the sun; but you’ve got to decide whether 
you’re goin’ to make the Bible fust, or jest drag it 
in once in a while. Ef I wuz no purticuler b’liever, 



The B ook and the Books 


119 


but jest an ordinary thinkin’ man, I’d say thet the 
Bible wuz important enough in the history of the 
world so thet it ought to be studied at least one hour 
a week.” 

“Well spoken, Uncle Hezekiah!” exclaimed Fran¬ 
cis Adams. “I vote with you for the good Book.” 

“You’re just right,” said Professor Fairbairn. 
“I had a feeling all the time that we ought to stick to 
the Bible and now the matter is perfectly plain.” 

“All right. I thank you, brothers. I really do. 
Now, ef you’re goin’ to teach the Bible, how be you 
goin’ to do it ? I’ve got some idees thet you kin hev 
fer jest what they cost me. One o’ them is thet 
ye’ve got to teach it with smilin’ faces. You’ve got 
to be glad an’ all your teachers hev got to let their 
scholars know thet they’re happy ’bout the old book 
an’ its message. It’s wuth bein’ happy about. I’ve 
tested it, men. I’ve tested it in the big times, in the 
days o’ big joy an’ in the days o’ big sorrow. I know 
it’s the Book. Scott is good an’ Dickens is good an’ 
thousands o’ volumes is good; but this is the good 
Book.” 

Miranda Ann paused a moment at the entrance of 
the arbor, and overheard the last words. “Amen!” 
she said, “Amen!” 

“Nuther thing, it seems to me thet you’ve got to 
hev a common-sensical method ’bout your teachin’. 
Fer some ages, some parts; fer other ages, t’other 



120 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


parts. They say thet in some places they tries to 
larn the same things to five-year-old Billy an’ his 
eighty-five-year-old grandfather. Must be a wise 
baby or a mighty simple old man! Seems ez though 
a scholar’d grow some in eighty year. Milk fer 
babies and meat fer men — thet’s what Saint Paul 
b’lieved. Professor, they calls you 'supervisor’ — 
is thet it? You know jest what parts o’ the Bible is 
right fer seven-year-olds, an’ what fer fourteen- 
year-olds an’ what fer the feller jest old enough to 
vote.” 

“Yes, we intend to have our school thoroughly 
graded.” 

“Make the Holy Book real by makin 1 the Holy 
Land real. Be sure to hev the boys an’ gals know 
how the folks used to look over there, what kind o’ 
clothes they wore, what kind o’ houses they lived in, 
what they et, what work they done. Hev lots o’ 
maps, lots o’ picters. Hev some clay fer the kiddies 
to make models on. Hev some real clothes from 
Jerusalem to show how the Israelites dressed. Let 
’em know what a leetle place Palestine is. Larn ’em 
so thet ef they wuz to go to Judee, they wouldn’t 
hev no great s’prises cornin’ to ’em. 

“Then you ought to git them teachers to git down 
behind the letter o’ the Bible to the speerit. It’s a 
good thing to larn the children some tex’s, but thet 
ain’t enough. They wuz a boy in our old deestrick 



The Book and the Books 


121 


school what could recite the hull multiplication table 
perfeck, could tell it hind-side fust an’ upside down, 
but he couldn’t multiply. An’ I s’pose a man might 
know all the words o’ the hull Bible an’ yit not know 
’em unto salvation. Ain’t thet so, Parson?” 

“Yes, we must not think so much of the casket 
that we forget the precious jewels that it contains.” 

“Thank you; thet’s your way o’ sayin’ somethin’. 
’Tain’t mine, but we means the same. One more 
thing. Be honest in teachin’ this old Book — be 
honest in justice to the Bible an’ in justice to God’s 
leetle ones. Don’t never think thet you kin sarve the 
kingdom o’ truth with a lie; an’ don’t hev your 
teachers pretendin’ to b’lieve what they don’t. About 
some things they may keep silent with them what 
ain’t old enough to understand; but the Bible don’t 
never need no falsehoods. ‘The truth shall make ye 
free.’ ” 

Aunt Miranda appeared with four ruddy glasses, 
not “children’s size,” as her brother said, but real 
goblets. “I thought p’raps you men folks might 
be ready fer a taste o’ raspberry shrub,” she re¬ 
marked. “It’s a purty hot day fer sich a confab ez 
you seem to hev ben havin’ out here.” 

As the four men sat and sipped the delicious fluid, 
an oriole darted by and slipped into his hammock, 
high in a neighboring elm-tree. “Thet there prince 
o’ gold’s got an idee it’s goin’ to rain. Guess he’s 



122 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


right. See them thunder-heads ? Books, ain’t they ? 
I love ’em. Purty soon we’ll be havin’ some fire¬ 
works here thet’ll beat any shoot-off on the Fourth 
o’ July. An’ the old valley’ll be filled with music. 
The lightnin’s a book to me an’ the thunder’s a book 
to me, both perclaimin’ the glory o’ God. They 
used to tell me that I wuz born in the midst o’ the 
greatest tempest ever wuz in these parts. I guess 
I’m a child o’ the storm. Anyhow, I loves it. ’Randy 
Ann, she don’t like it so well, but it jest makes me 
feel ez though I could soar up to heaven an’ right 
through the gates.” 

“Well, Uncle Hezekiah, we must beat the storm 
to the village. A great visit we’ve had. You’ve 
cleared the air for us on some most important ques¬ 
tions.” The minister rose to go and the others 
followed. 

“Jest a minute, jest a minute!” exclaimed the old 
man. “Would it be too much for you to take some 
leetle passels down town with you? I had somethin’ 
kinder purty in the express t’other day.” 

In response to his signal, Miranda Ann came in 
with three packages, neatly wrapped in white paper. 
“Look inside,” commanded Hezekiah. “I’m jest 
boy enough to want to see whether you like your 
presents.” 

Each man found a Bible, beautifully bound, ex¬ 
quisitely printed, artistically illustrated, and with his 



The Book and the Books 


123 


own name stamped in gold on the leather cover. 
Uncle Hezekiah silenced the thanks that they tried 
to express. “No, no, jest keep the books in remem¬ 
brance o’ this afternoon an’ read ’em oncet in a while 
when this old wheel-chair’s done its duty. They’s 
somethin’ inside thet I got the school-marm to write, 
somethin’ writ by a man named Whittier thet I 
larned years ago.” 

On the fly leaves were these words: 

“We search the world for truth. We cull 
The good, the pure, the beautiful, 

From graven stone and written scroll, 

From all old flower-fields of the soul, 

And find the best the sages said 
Is in the Book our mothers read.” 

And beneath was written: “Ye search the scrip¬ 
tures, because ye think that in them ye have eternal 
life; and these are they which bear witness of me.” 



XIII 


THE BEGINNING OF A LONG 
JOURNEY 

The old man faced the sunset. The west wind 
frolicked with the summer clouds, scattering them 
into light, fleecy flocks, piling them again into heavy, 
forbidding banks, lining them up like rows of fight¬ 
ing men, driving forth great “thunder-heads,” ter¬ 
rific and awful in their celestial beauty. No Angelo 
could mix such magic hues and no Dante could 
imagine a panorama so sublime. 

“D’you know, Gladys, I’ve watched them sky crit¬ 
ters ever sence I wuz knee-high an’ I ain’t never got 
used to ’em yit. I used to call ’em purty when I wuz 
a leetle chap an’ then I called ’em grand; but I ain’t 
got no word fer ’em in my old age. They’re more 
wonderful to me to-day then they ever wuz afore.” 

Beautiful Gladys Adams smoothed his pillow and 
slightly turned the old wheel-chair. 

“Uncle Hezekiah, you are one having eyes to see 
and using them to see.” 

“Wal, the good Book says thet the young men 
shall see visions an’ the old men shall dream dreams. 
I’m old enough to dream the dreams, but I thank 


The Beginning of a Long Journey 125 


God thet I’m still young enough to see the visions, 
too. Now, right up there over the top o’ thet ther’ 
high elm they’s a leetle lady, all in white, an’ she 
nods to me an’ smiles. An’ way over there, see thet 
big arm stretchin’ out an’ kinder beckonin’ like? 
Seems ez though some good friends wuz waitin’ 
round just to give an old feller a welcome purty 
soon.” 

His whimsical mood, partly humorous, partly seri¬ 
ous, continued; but after a while Gladys sobbed in 
spite of herself. For she knew something and she 
knew that he knew something perfectly well. 

“Now see here, leetle gal, is thet the way you’re 
plannin’ to take this great good fortune thet’s cornin’ 
to your friend? Tears ’cause I’m goin’ to see the 
Great Physician an’ git red o’ all these old aches an’ 
pains? Wal, it’s all right, Gladys, an’ I hopes you 
will cry sometimes, jest enough, not too much. I’m 
jest human enough to hope thet you will miss the 
old man some, an’ thet Francis will, an’ t’other folks. 
An’ I’ll miss you all, never doubt it. But ’tain’t right 
fer me to stay here in this old wheel-chair ferever, 
now is it?” And the young woman, who, since 
Aunt Miranda’s going, had made herself devoted 
nurse and ministering angel, shook her head. 

This day, though late in August, had shown the 
perfection of mid-summer, and Uncle Hezekiah had 
insisted that in God’s open air was the place for 



lit Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


him. On the piazza he, the minister and Francis 
Adams, had held a long consultation. This after¬ 
noon, when at two o’clock they had come cross-field 
to the farm, the old man had demanded time for a 
real “talk-over.” 

“Francis,” said the host, “do you reckon thet I’ve 
got any friends round this place thet would like to 
say ‘Good afternoon’ to me?” He drew out his 
familiar whistle and gave a series of calls to which 
a quick response came from the vicinity of the barn, 
and in a few moments Rich Haskins came into view 
with two big black horses which followed him with¬ 
out a halter. “Oh, here they be! Three friends, all 
o’ ’em mighty dear to my heart.” 

He gave Rich the nod of affectionate companion¬ 
ship and then stretched out his two hands toward the 
horses. They came up to the edge of the piazza side 
by side, put their chins in his lap and fixed their eyes 
on his face with the love of perfect comradeship. 

“Wal, old fellers,” he said, “you an’ me has ben 
purty good chums, hain’t we? An’ I want you to 
know thet it don’t make no diff’rence where I be, I 
ain’t a-goin’ to fergit you two hosses; no, sir, no sir. 
Rich, you jest pull a leetle clover, will you?” He 
took the dainty grass and gave a handful to each 
horse, with an affectionate rub on the nose. “There, 
boys, you go on now; an’ thank you fer all you’ve 
done fer me; thank you kindly. 



The Beginning of a Long Journey 127 


“Wal, I guess I’d better give my time to men 
ruther than hosses jest now. You two partners o’ 
mine know thet I’m a mighty sight interested in 
somethin’ thet you’re a mighty sight interested in. 
What about thet Sunday School o’ yourn? You’ve 
ben doin’ good work, Parson, and you’ve ben doing 
good work, Francis. Air we gittin’ the results thet 
we ought to?” 

The response came with much enthusiasm. 
“We’ve doubled our membership,” said the minister. 
“We’ve doubled our attendance,” said the superin¬ 
tendent. And they told him of the new spirit in the 
school, of the added equipment, of the new system of 
lessons, of the large class of adults, of the general at¬ 
mosphere of efficiency and accomplishment. “We 
had a high compliment last week,” said Francis. 
“The State Supervisor visited us, and he said that, 
everything considered, we were doing the best work 
of any school of which he knew.” “And,” declared 
the pastor, “we all know, Uncle Hezekialh, that a 
large part of the credit belongs right out here on fhis 
piazza.” 

“Wal, I’ll tell you. Tve got my will fixed up. 
Excuse me, Francis, fer not gittin’ the job done at 
your office, but there wuz a few reasons why I 
thought I wouldn’t. Now the Lord hez ben ginerous 
with me, wonderfully ginerous. I’ve tried to give 
away a good deal, but the more I’ve give the more 



128 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


he’s give to me. I’ve thought thet p’raps he intended 
me to ’cumulate somethin’ fer some good work. An’ 
I’ve got a lot o’ money — a good deal more’n anybody 
in Gainesbury hez any idee on. Now ’tain’t no 
secret from you two men what I’m doin’. I’m per- 
vidin’ fer them two hosses — they ain’t nobody ever 
goin’ to hev a chance to ’buse them fellers. An’ Rich 
ain’t never got to worry ’bout the poorhouse. Then, 
they’s some others. The minister’s wife, she’ll hev 
a leetle pin money, not enough to spoil her. And 
there’ll be some silver spoons an’ somethin’ to go in 
’em fer the future resident down to Lawyer Adams’ 
(You needn’t think thet you’ve got to name him He- 
zekiah, Francis). But there’ll be a lot left, enough 
to do somethin’ kinder big with. An’ I’m giving it 
all to the Gainesbury church. I ain’t givin’ it fer 
winders nor organs nor paintin’s on the walls. 
They’s others kin do them good things. I’m givin’ 
it fer edication. I’m givin’ it fer your Sunday 
School — only I guess ’twon’t be jest a Sunday 
School much longer. 

“I’ve got an idee that Gainesbury kin set an ex¬ 
ample fer the hull country, fer the hull world, p’raps. 
Why not? Some place hez got to do it. Now a 
man don’t hev to be very wise to know thet the 
Church hain’t hardly begun to do its work fer edi¬ 
cation in morals an’ religion. It hain’t hardly begun 
to git an idee o’ what the opportunity is an’ the duty 



The Beginning of a Long Journey 129 


is. It makes me laugh sometimes to think o’ 
churches spendin’ thousands o’ dollars fer music an’ 
fine buildin’s an’ ev’rything you kin think on an’ 
spendin’ almost nothin’ on what ought to be their 
biggest work o’ all. Now these Sunday Schools thet 
we hev already is all right enough in their way. 
Prob’ly we had to hev ’em ’fore we could hev any¬ 
thin’ bigger. But they’s only jest forerunners. You 
can’t edicate a child in the most important part o’ 
his hull bein’ in half an hour o’ one day o’ the week. 
I expect they’s goin’ to be a big awakenin’ one o’ 
these days. The Church will stop playin’ at edica- 
tion an’ will begin really to work at it. An’ then thei 
Sunday Schools thet we hev now, the best on ’em, 
will seem ’bout ez an old sickle would aside a latest- 
fangled harvester. 

“Somebody’s got to lead. Then the Church will 
foiler on. An’ who’s goin’ to make the start? Some 
collige ? Some big city church ? Some leetle village 
church? I don’t guess so. My opinion is thet it’ll 
be some church in a town ’bout like Gainesbury. An’ 
so, why not Gainesbury? Here’s a minister thet’s 
smart enough; an’ here’s a superintendent thet’s 
smart enough; an’ here’s some trustees an’ other 
folks thet’s ’bout ez good ez they make ’em.” 

The two men listened, a great illumination coming 
into their minds and shining on their faces. 

“Now p’raps it’s my part to see thet you hev the 



130 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


money. They’ll be enough so thet you kin hev what 
buildin’s you need an’ all the stuff to work with. 
An’ you kin hev some paid workers. Ef the speerit 
moves you, Francis, to give your hull self tc this 
work, well an’ good. But I don’t dictate nuthin’. 
Prob’ly some folks’ll hev to go ’way an’ study. All 
right. Let’s hev ev’rythin’ right. 

“Course I don’t think thet my money’s goin’ to be 
all thet you’ll hev. It’s jest a start. They’s some 
other folks thet I kin think on thet’ll shell out when 
they gits the idee. An’ I hope thet ev’rybody in 
Gainesbury will want to hev some share. 

“This plan o’ mine ain’t jest fer one place. I’m 
thinkin’ o’ the hull Church. Wouldn’t it be a great 
thing ef an old codger, in a wheel-chair, away off 
here on a farm, could do somethin’ to help the Chris¬ 
tian movement out in Californy an’ down in Maine 
an’ even over in Australy!” 

The minister rubbed his eyes and looked at the 
young lawyer. “Francis, is this a dream, or are we 
really awake?” 

“We’re awake!” exclaimed the other; “I believe 
that we’re wider awake than we ever have been be¬ 
fore. We are — and I intend not to fall asleep 
again. Uncle Hezekiah, I accept your commission 
in this matter and I will follow whatever leading 
comes after the sincerest prayer that I can utter.” 

“And I, too,” pledged the minister, “but I wish 



The Beginning of a Long Journey 131 


that we were going to have you here to give us your 
constant advice and encouragement.” 

“Wal, p’raps I won’t be a thousand miles away — 
who knows? P’raps some way or other ye’ll git a 
feelin’ thet the old partner’s round an’ watchin’ an’ 
prayin’ an plannin’ with you an’ fer you.” 

Soon the men spoke of returning to town, feeling 
that the strength of the invalid ought not to be over¬ 
taxed. “Afore you go, I guess you’d better do a 
leetle somethin’ fer me. P’raps you’ll hev another 
chance an’ p’raps not. We don’t worry ’bout thet. 
I’d like to hear you read some pieces, Parson, some 
from the Bible an’ some from other books — some 
pieces ’bout what ’Randy Ann’s gone through, you 
know.” 

The minister was rarely gifted with voice and ex¬ 
pression and he read with understanding and beauty 
the sweet, triumphant passages of the New Testa¬ 
ment, adding the choicest poems of Longfellow, 
Whitman, Browning and Tennyson. “Thet 'Cross¬ 
in’ the Bar’ suits me,” said the old man, “only I guess 
you’ve ben intendin’ to close up with thet Fifteenth 
o’ First Corinthians, hain’t you?” 

The reading finished, Uncle Hezekiah said, 
“You’ve made a lot o’ prayers with me, old friend; 
let’s hev another to-day. But you know, no fear in 
it an’ no complaint. Jest trust an’ thanksgivin’. I 
ain’t got nuthin’ agin the Lord. He’s hit me hard 



132 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


sometimes, but I’ve smiled back at him. I’ve tried 
to meet pain half-way. An’ I want you men to know 
an’ to tell folks thet the best an’ happiest days o’ my 
life’s ben spent sence I’ve come to this ’ere old chair. 
’Twus kinder hard to trust at fust; but it’s ben all 
right. An’ now, purty soon, I’m goin’ to walk agin 
— an’ run an’ jump, yes, sir, an’ jump” 

The minister prayed, prayed with the simplicity 
and sweetness that were fitting in the presence of one 
who, through years of deep experience, had come to 
the wisdom of childhood. When he had finished, 
the old man’s eyes were closed and he did not open 
them as they slipped away. But they heard him 
murmur, “They that wait for Jehovah shall renew 
their strength; they shall mount up with wings as 
eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall 
walk, and not faint.” Then they went away, feeling 
that they might not see him again in the flesh and 
that he had chosen to spare them the pain of a 
spoken farewell. 

After their departure Uncle Hezekiah slept in his 
chair until Gladys brought him his egg and milk for 
supper. Then he rested again, rousing just in time 
for that marvellous sunset. 

“No, Gladys, you wouldn’t be so cruel ez to keep 
me here. You’ve ben mighty good to me, Glaciys. 
I seem to be kinder chilly now. Would you mind 
jest holdin’ thet hand a bit? I want to tell you 



The Beginning of a Long Journey 133 


somethin’. Ef things hed ben different an’ ever I 
hed hed a darter o’ my own, I’d a-wanted her to be 
like you be. Sometimes it seems ez though you wuz 
my darter in the speerit. Lots o’ folks hez called me 
‘Uncle,’ but, d’you know, they ain’t nary one ever 
called me ‘Father.’ Would you do it jest once, jest 
fer an old man’s whim?” 

“Dear Father,” she said, very simply, and kissed 
him. 

When the sunset had faded, he started up. “Why, 
it’s growin’ light agin,” he said. “An’ they’s lots o’ 
people here!” The young woman stood beside him, 
unafraid. He seemed to be shaking hands. “Why, 
’Randy, be you here? An’ Charlie? Wal, wal! I 
guess I knows what it all means. An’ you, Mary, 
Mary, my Mary, arter all these years! An’ Mother, 
an’ Father!” His face beamed. “Wal, I sure am 
right glad to see you all!” 

From all the country round about the people gath¬ 
ered at the church, which, through all the years of 
his imprisonment, he so loyally had served and loved. 
Very tactfully and simply the minister spoke, his 
text being, “Let me die the death of the righteous, 
and let my last end be like his.” 

Then Francis Adams arose. “Fellow citizens,” 
said he, “he being dead, yet speaketh.” And he 
made known what this friend, everybody’s friend, 
had set forth on the last afternoon of his life. 




134 Seeing Straight in the Sunday School 


Then the people went out with beaming faces, pledg¬ 
ing themselves to make that high dream come true, 
and saying each to his neighbor, “It is very good for 
Gainesbury and for all the world that there has lived 
such a man as Hezekiah Harbinger.” 

















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